


Pot o' Gold

by ahurston



Category: Schitt's Creek
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst with a Happy Ending, David's Body/Self Image Issues, Friends to Lovers, Immortality, Leprechauns, Let Alexis Eat Food, M/M, Magical Realism, Palm Reading, Pre-Schitt's Creek, Slow Burn, So Many Restaurants So Much Food, Wishes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-23
Updated: 2020-02-05
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:42:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 22,936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22368910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ahurston/pseuds/ahurston
Summary: The love story of a leprechaun and the guy who bought his magic rings.
Relationships: Patrick Brewer/David Rose
Comments: 202
Kudos: 487





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cover art by the gorgeous and talented [DocOlive](https://archiveofourown.org/users/docolive/)!!
> 
> Bless you bless you bless you for the beta [this_is_not_nothing](https://archiveofourown.org/users/this_is_not_nothing/pseuds/this_is_not_nothing)!!

It was in the pawn shop on 167th that David saw them. The rings. He’d been following Sebastien to every pawn shop in the Bronx for the last six hours, looking for items that were, according to Sebastien, “Imbued with the piquant tragedy of humanity.” His next project centered on urban found art, apparently. David tried not to ask too many questions. 

These rings though, they weren’t imbued with anything tragic. They were a set of four wide, silver, open-backed bands, set in a simple cloth case. David made eye contact with the pawnbroker, who looked him up and down before nodding. David picked up the leftmost ring, checking for markings, but there were none. Just smooth, scratchless silver. They looked almost new, but somehow, David knew they weren’t. These were _old_. These were special. 

David checked to see that Sebastien was still otherwise occupied in the back of the store, perusing the selection of hocked vacuum cleaners and drills. David handed his card over at the register, turning down the gaudy, yellow plastic bag emblazoned optimistically with “THANK YOU” in, of course, Comic Sans. He didn’t need a bag; he was going to be wearing these immediately. 

The shopkeeper nodded wordlessly again when David collected back his card and the ring box.

“Sebastien?” David said, heading in his direction. 

Sebastien turned around, a shop vac hose in each hand. “David, I’ve told you a thousand times. There’s a process, and it cannot be short-circuited. If you can’t understand that -”

“Nevermind. I’ll just -” He was going to say, ‘wait for you.’ But maybe, this time...maybe not. “Head out then.”

“Suit yourself.”

“I’ll see you later?” David said, cringing at the stupid, contemptable hope in his voice. 

Sebastien hummed noncommittally in reply, not bothering to turn around. Apparently, pawned home appliances were an engrossing representation of human misery. A lot more engrossing than David. 

The bell above the shop door jangled loudly as David stepped outside. He hadn’t gone two steps before he nearly ran smack into someone. An unusual sort of someone, maybe, if David’s quick assessment was correct. A man was leaning against the brick wall of the pawn shop, hands in the pockets of his long, tweed jacket. He had a simple, black toque over his hair, and one foot propped up on the brick behind him in that casual and effortless way David never could pull off. Not even for pretend, and David pretended a lot. 

“Sorry,” David heard himself say. Which was weird, because David didn’t apologize. To anyone. Not even to Alexis, that time he’d slept with her tennis coach. Or her French tutor. Or her reiki master. 

“It’s fine,” the man said, looking right at David. And that, that just wasn’t _done,_ and yes, he was in the Bronx and not Manhattan, but still. People didn’t look each other in the eye until you took the train to at least White Plains, and David had only been there once before, under duress. What was this guy’s deal? David had no interest in finding out. 

“Okay, um. Bye?” Why was that a question? What was wrong with his voice? 

“Can I ask you something?” the guy said, stepping away from the wall and a foot or two closer to David.

“Um, sure.” The word his brain had been looking for was definitely, definitely ‘no,’ and yet. 

“Did you find what you were looking for in there?”

“I wasn’t really looking for something for me, I was with...someone, and he was looking for something, and I just happened to find something after all, and. Why am I telling you any of this.”

“I asked.”

“Oh,” David said, stuffing his hands in his pockets, enjoying the way the rings clinked together on his fingers. “Well. If that’s all -”

“It actually isn’t.”

“Um. Okay?”

“So…”

“Oh, are you - are you asking for money?” The tweed jacket the man was wearing was a little worn after all, and definitely not appropriate winter attire for New York. “No cash, I’m afraid. I’ve got a few yen in my wallet, but that probably won’t help. And they’re sentimental yen, besides. You can’t have them.”

“I don’t want them.”

“Okay. Well. Good," David said. “I’ll just be...going, then.”

"I want the rings you just bought."

"Um. How did you know about the rings?" David said, warily. He took a few steps back. Nearly into the gutter, really, which. Gross. 

“That doesn’t matter. I’m going to buy them from you.”

“Uh, no?” David said, be-ringed fingers clenching in his pocket. 

“No?” the man’s forehead wrinkled in confusion. “I have gold.”

“Okay, first - that’s weird. Second, still no.”

“Why?” the man asked. 

“I like them.”

“You like them. More than gold?”

“...Maybe?” David said, suddenly sure that the answer was actually ‘yes.’ 

“So there’s room to negotiate. The thing is, I need those rings.”

“Sure you do.”

“No, really. I - they’re important, and...”

“They’re important to _me_ ,” David said, with more indignation than was probably justified for a purchase he made not five minutes ago. But it felt true, nonetheless. 

“Okay, fine. Anything you wish.”

“Nothing,” David said, shaking his head firmly. “I don’t want anything.” 

This was, in fact, a bold-faced lie. He wanted so many things. For his gallery to get reviewed in the Times, for Sebastien to kiss him when they fucked, for Alexis to break up whichever of the lesser Hemsworths she was currently dating, among a thousand other things. 

“Try me.”

David spun on his heel to face him. 

“Fine, alright. I wish Vik Muniz would agree to an exhibit in my gallery. I’ve been after him for _years_ , and he’s got these microscopic castles engraved on a _single_ grain of sand -”

David’s phone buzzed in his pocket, against his fingertips. On instinct, David pulled it out, eyebrow rising at the international area code. Probably Alexis, needing David to express mail something _absolutely essential_ to her in São Paolo. 

“Alexis, if this is about your ankle boots again, _no_ , I didn’t borrow them. They’re not my size, and even if they were, the fringe -”

“David? David Rose?” a decidedly male voice said.

“Um, yes?”

“This is Francisco Santos, assistant to Mr. Vik Muniz, and I’m calling to confirm Mr. Muniz will be happy display his Sand Castles collection at Gallery Adelina beginning on -”

David’s brain whited out and he nearly dropped his phone onto the sidewalk. What the fuck. David somehow made it through the call without ruining his professional reputation. A miracle, considering. 

It had to be a coincidence. A really, unbelievably timed coincidence. This guy didn’t have anything to do with that call. But even as he was thinking this firmly to himself, Tweed Coat Guy was smirking at him. 

“Okay, um, what the fuck?” David said, emphatically gesturing in the air in the way he always did when he was nervous. Patrick’s eyes tracked the movement of his right hand, obviously enough that David glanced down to see what could possibly be so fascinating. The reason for the staring became clear when the rings shone back at him in the bright winter sunlight. 

“You’re upset?”

“Yes! I mean, no! But also yes! Who the fuck _are_ you?”

The guy laughed, eyes crinkling in a way that was at odds with his entire demeanor up until this point. 

“My name is Patrick. And you’re welcome,” he said.

“I didn’t thank you, though?” David replied, still trying his best not to have an aneurysm right here outside Big Marty’s Gold and Pawn. 

“You didn’t have to.”

“Okay. Um. This is too weird for me. You know what, fine." David twisted each ring off the fingers of his right hand and held them out in his palm. "Here. Not worth it.”

The guy, _Patrick_ , stopped smiling. 

“Well, what?” David asked, confused. “I didn’t ask for you to do...whatever you just did. Not that I’m acknowledging that you did anything at all. But still. Just in case. Nobody does anything for free, so...here.” 

David held the rings out again, taking a step toward Patrick. 

Patrick plucked the rings out of his palm, slipping them on the index and ring fingers of his right hand without looking. "Alright. Thanks. So what else do you want?"

"What do you mean?"

"You wouldn't let me buy them, so you get two more wishes."

"You say that like you're reminding me of rules to a game I've never played."

"Okay, sure. Here are the rules. You gave me my rings back, so you get three wishes. Usually the wishes come first and then the rings, but you - you're a little different. I’m improvising.”

“I don’t want _any_ of that. Not creepy rules, or wishes, or anything. Just, we’re good. Enjoy your rings,” David said with a decisive nod. 

“You’re very frustrating. And strange.”

“Excuse me, _I’m_ strange? Am I the pissy genie who materialized in the middle of the Bronx?”

“Not a genie.”

David rolled his eyes. “Okay, fine. _Djinn._ ”

Patrick shook his head. 

“Fairy?” David hedged.

“Nope.”

“Wizard.”

“Fuck you, I’m not a wizard.”

“Was not expecting that reaction. Is there something offensive about being mistaken for a wizard that I’m not, like, _aware_ of, or...?”

“Are you done guessing?”

“Yes. Because I’m frozen. I can no longer think.” David’s stomach grumbled. “And I’m hungry.”

“Ah, so your wishes are for warmth and food. Easy.”

“No! I didn’t say that! I can get myself a fucking sandwich, thank you very much.”

“Then, warmth. Wish for warmth. Go on.”

“No.”

Patrick huffed. He looked on the verge of stomping his feet in frustration. 

“There’s a diner a few doors down,” David heard himself say for reasons he would never be able to articulate.

“You want the diner then? I can get you the diner.”

“No I don’t ‘ _want the diner_ ,’ do I look like I have food service-based aspirations?”

Patrick looked him up and down, slowly. If David didn’t know better, he’d have wondered...but no. That’d be crazy. _As crazy as this already was?_ David’s brain helpfully pointed out. 

“Coffee. I’m going to buy myself a coffee. You’re...welcome...I guess. To join me.”

Patrick shrugged noncommittally, but when David headed down the street, Patrick fell into step beside him. 

They didn’t speak during the short walk to the diner. 

“Two, please,” David said to the harried-looking hostess when they stepped inside. She nodded, showing them to a booth. 

“Do you have any more guesses?” Patrick asked. “Or have you figured out what else you want to wish for?”

“Yes, and no. Are you some kind of god? I feel like some of the Greek ones could grant wishes, but I can’t quite remember.”

Patrick laughed. “No. Not a god.”

“You seemed a little grumpy for a god, anyway.”

“Hey.”

“Well, you do. If I were a god, I’d -”

“You want me to make you a god? That one’s a bit of a challenge. Getting you this diner would be easier, but -”

“No!” David nearly shouted. “I definitely don't want...that.” David glanced around the restaurant to see if any nearby people were eavesdropping. “Keep your voice down.”

“Good,” Patrick said, quieter. “You don’t want to be a god. I’ve known a few, and I should tell you -”

“Jesus Christ,” David interrupted, just as the waitress set two large coffees down in front of them. 

“Oh no, he’s okay. A little preachy sometimes, but -”

“You _do not know_ Jesus Christ.”

“Who's to say,” Patrick said, grinning into his mug as he took a sip. “This coffee is terrible. You should have wished for better coffee.”

“I didn’t wish for _any_ coffee!”

“I know,” Patrick said, despairingly. 

“Okay, tell me. What the hell is going on? Who the fuck are you?”

“I already told you, I’m Patrick.”

“That doesn’t answer _either_ question, though!” David said, his voice rising shrilly at the end. “Again, what’s going on, and who are you?”

“You haven’t guessed right yet. Or given me your name. Which I already know, but -”

“It’s David. Wait, what?"

Patrick smirked at him.

"And you can’t just tell me what you are?”

Patrick sighed. “Okay, David. Leprechaun. I’m a Leprechaun.”

“Shut the fuck up.”

“Is that a wish?” Patrick said, mouth twisting to the side. 

David shook his head, mutely. He was at capacity. This wasn’t happening. He reached into his pocket for his wallet, signaling to the waitress for the check. He was _done_.

“Where are you going?” Patrick asked. 

“Somewhere. Anywhere? Anywhere else. Not here.”

“I’ll go with you,” Patrick said.

“No, you won’t.”

“Tomorrow, then.”

“Um, no?” David said. The waitress dropped the check on the table.

Patrick pinched the bridge of his nose, breathing out harshly. “Okay, alright. You need proof. You’re a skeptic. I get it.”

He snapped his fingers, and when he presented his open palm to David, an ancient-looking coin rested in the center of it.

"Wow. So you're a magician."

At Patrick's scowl, David amended, " _Illusionist_. Fine."

"Leprechaun," Patrick said through gritted teeth, and a veritable shower of coins clattered to the tabletop from thin air. 

David whipped his head around to see how their fellow diners were reacting, but they were all still steadfastly engaged in their food or their phones. What the fuck?

Patrick waved his hand again, and all but one of the coins vanished. David's hands were shaking - his coffee was about to slosh out of the mug. 

“Don’t worry, no one else saw,” Patrick said. 

This was less than reassuring. 

“Am I...hallucinating? I haven’t taken anything. Today, anyway. But. This feels suspiciously like a hallucination.”

The futility of asking his probably-hallucinated dining partner whether he was, in fact, hallucinating was not lost on him. 

“No,” Patrick said. “Watch this.”

As the waitress walked past the table, Patrick held out the check along with one of his magic coins.

“Um, we don’t accept...whatever this is,” the waitress said, holding the coin up to the light and offering David back his grip on reality. She could see the coin. The coin was real. Or, rather, it was temporarily real. She tried to hand it back to Patrick, but he waved her off. She shrugged, pocketing it as David offered up his credit card instead. 

“Sir, we have a ten dollar minimum for cards. You boys sure you just want coffee? I should tell you, our Eggs-Quisite Omelettes are...good.” The waitress, _Diane_ , her name tag said, gave them a pained smile. 

“I’m so sorry you had to make that pun,” Patrick said. 

Diane whispered, "It's a branding thing? I guess? New owner rolled it out. God, I feel so stupid saying it, but my boss skims my tips if I don't..."

“Keep the coin. We’ll take two loaded omelettes. Won’t we, David?”

David nodded, despite himself. He didn’t eat omelettes, especially ‘loaded’ ones. But Sebastien had been in a hurry today, so they’d skipped breakfast. He was so, so hungry, and cheesy eggs with ham sounded - okay, he wanted a loaded omelette. 

Diane smiled, and God _, winked_ at Patrick, tucking her hair behind her ear. 

When she was out of hearing distance, David asked, “Was that actually generous, or will the coin disappear on her in a minute?”

Patrick laughed. “No, she gets to keep that one. She deserves it.”

“How can you tell?”

“Almost all foodservice workers deserve gold coins. Fifty coins, actually. But that might be conspicuous. And she was _nice_ , unlike some people.”

David put a hand to his chest in mock-offense. 

“I’m nice,” David protested. At Patrick’s skeptical expression, he added, “What? I am!”

“You’re good. There’s a difference.”

David stopped short, the teasing words he was about to say dying on his tongue.

“You don’t know that,” David said. “You don’t know me.”

“Let’s just say I have a sense for these things.”

“Sure,” David said, unsettled. “So leprechauns can sense moral character.”

Patrick tipped his head to the side. “In a way. Glad to hear you’re coming around on accepting the leprechaun thing.”

“I’m decidedly _not_ coming around. I’ll need, possibly, the rest of my life to ‘come around,’” David said, throwing out air quotes despite his better impulses. 

“Alright, gentleman. Two loaded omelets,” Diane said, setting twin steaming plates in front of them.

When David immediately set about enthusiastically shoveling eggs into his mouth, Patrick said, "You sure you don't want the diner? Or just Liam, the line cook in the back?”

“On second thought, maybe I do want Liam,” David said after his eleventh rushed bite. How Patrick knew the name of the line cook was a concern made distant by the gorgeous saturated fats currently hitting his bloodstream. 

“Okay, judging by the obscene sounds you’re making about a four egg omelette, you’re at least a little serious.”

David nodded, humming around his fork. 

“One of the rules is that you can’t wish for actual people. I could give you the diner, no problem. You’d inherit it from an obscure relative you didn’t know you had. It’d be great. But I can’t literally give you the people who work here.”

“Well, what’s the point of that? The building didn’t make the eggs. What kind of leprechaun _are_ you, anyway?”

"The only one you'll ever meet," Patrick said, glowering. 

"Mm. Okay, sure. So what are the other ground rules? You can't give me actual people, which upon further reflection, is a good rule. What else?"

"Well, I'm supposed to grant you exactly three wishes, and you used one up on the sand artist. Which, alright. That's a choice."

"He's a _genius_. You wouldn't understand."

Patrick bit back a grin. "Anyway. Three wishes. Then you’ll never see me again."

When instead of replying, David continued happily eating his eggs, Patrick added, "There's really nothing you want? I know - you could wish for identical rings, if you liked mine so much! Then you'll still have a spare wish left over."

"No."

Patrick huffed and let his head tip back against the booth wall, exposing the long line of his throat, which David couldn’t _not_ notice. 

“I tell you what. I'll think about it - what I want to wish for. And I'll let you know when I've decided. Give me your phone number."

"Don't have a phone," Patrick said with a shrug.

"Okay, well that's weirder than the leprechaun thing."

Patrick laughed. "Don't worry, I'll find you."

David raised an eyebrow at him, when he probably should've called the cops. But he just couldn't manage to summon a proportional amount of actual fear in this bizarre situation. 

He should talk to his therapist about that. But what did she know really, always giving him useless advice like how we should re-evaluate his boundaries with his family, or consider prioritizing his own happiness in romantic relationships. Whatever the fuck that meant. Thanks for nothing, Dr. Mendelbaum.

"Somewhere public, don't worry," Patrick added. “I'm not going to show up in your kitchen. Unless you invite me."

"I won't be...doing that," David said, his voice carrying far less surety than he told himself he had. 

*

David was standing in the middle of his gallery, a bright, open space that was currently as empty as the day he'd leased it. Possibilities were playing out behind his eyes, and he was so engrossed in his imaginings that he barely registered the chime of the door opening. 

"We're closed," he called out, without turning around. He'd almost figured out where he'd position the projectors - 

"Looking great in here. Really loving all the...minimalism."

David turned around, but he already knew who he'd see when he did. He recognized that voice.

Patrick was there, hands in his pockets and smiling at him, rocking back on his heels. 

"Did you figure out another wish yet, David? It's been two weeks."

David sighed, rubbing at his temples. He was going to have to start all over now on his vision casting for the exhibit, after this interruption to his process. However well he filled out a henley. 

"Are you alright?" Patrick asked, and David was surprised to see he looked genuinely, albeit marginally, concerned. 

"Fantastic," David snapped. "A world-renowned artist is exhibiting in my gallery in a week, and I'm so, so prepared."

"Can't you hire someone to help?"

"Yes, I could. I totally, totally _could_ , but I won't. This is too important for someone else to fuck up. You can't trust people, Patrick."

"Oh, I know," Patrick said wearily. "But, no offense, this situation seems a little lower stakes than some of the dilemmas I've witnessed throughout history."

"Um, excuse you? Vik Muniz is a pretty _fucking_ big deal.”

“Mm. I don’t know. The 100 Years War? Napoleon? The Normandy Invasion?”

“Okay, granted. But that reminds me - how old are you?" David asked.

"614," Patrick said. "Wait, 29."

"Come on," David said, crossing his arms.

"Well, right now, I'm 29."

"Sure," David said with an eye roll. "And right now, I'm 27."

"You're 31."

"Fuck, you can sense ages? Wait, what does 'right now' mean?"

"What it sounds like," Patrick said. "Right now, I'm 29."

"Okay, why do I get the feeling that I'm missing something -"

"Am I also 614? Yes. But right now, I'm 29. This is a good age. I think I’ll hang out at 29 for a while. Maybe a few decades. We’ll see.”

"Please explain before I stroke out." 

"Let's get lunch first," Patrick said "You're hungry."

“You don’t know that.”

“David.”

“You say my name a lot.”

“Do I? Do you mind?”

“...No.”

“Glad we've cleared that up. You’re hungry. Am I wrong?

“Also no.”

“There’s a great place a few blocks away. Burgers topped with onion rings, cheese inside the patty. You’ll love it.”

David followed him out the door like Patrick was holding a leash. 

*

“Oh my God, this is so fucking good,” David said, biting into his burger.

“I’m glad you like it. I could hardly hear myself think over the sound of your stomach grumbling before.”

“So sorry,” David said, as he dipped a sweet potato fry in some sort of mayo/ketchup/hot sauce hybrid that was giving David a reason to live. 

“So. Now that you’re fed -”

“Not all the way fed yet,” David corrected, moving on to the fried pickles. 

“Now that you’re _less hungry_ , have you given any more thought to your second wish?”

“Mm. Yes. Lots.”

Patrick drummed his fingers on the table as David continued eating. 

“I didn’t say they were _conclusive_ thoughts," David said, coming up for air between bites. "Just that I’d had thoughts. A large numerical amount of thoughts. That I had. Pass me the pepper flakes?”

Patrick handed them over. 

“So yeah, these thoughts. I was thinking that maybe I should maximize this opportunity to engage in some spiritual reflection. Go with me here, what if I don’t want or need _anything_ at all that I don’t already have?”

Patrick dropped his head to the tabletop, narrowly missing the tray of fried green beans and blue cheese dip. 

All of this was delicious, and David hadn’t eaten this much fried food since he was ten years old and Liza Minelli told him his cheeks were looking 'extra pinchable.' He nearly considered wishing for the ability to eat fried vegetables and creamy dips every day of his life without changing his waist size until he imagined how disappointed Patrick would be in him. Which was weird. Why the fuck did he care? God, these pickles were amazing.

“David,” Patrick groaned into the faux-wood tabletop. “Please.”

“I’m just not sure yet. Ask again later. Are you going to eat those buffalo tater tots?”

Patrick pushed the basket of tots across the table toward him.

"Thanks so much."

*

"Oh good, you're here," David said when Patrick opened the door to his office at the back of the gallery. David had been busy trying not to obsess about why the opening last week had gone so well but the place had been empty since. He needed a break. "I'm starving."

"I know just the place."

David nearly fell out of his chair in his hurry to follow. He didn't know how it had happened, but this had become their routine. Patrick would invariably show up at the gallery just when David was buried most deeply in a pit of quiet self-loathing. He always came armed with an urgent recommendation for a restaurant David had never heard of, and David had learned to go along with it. 

"Wait, before we go - do I need to change my shirt for this one? That barbecue place last week was amazing, but it took me hours to get that mesquite sauce out of my sweater."

Patrick laughed. "You should be fine. There's this Korean place that has these stone bowls that make the rice in the bibimbap all crispy... you'll love it. And I believe in your ability to get food to your mouth without always ruining your clothes."

"Fuck you. Let's go."

*

Over lamb kebabs from a street cart on an unseasonably warm March afternoon, David asked, “How come you never take me to Irish places? Ashamed of your homeland?

“Not at all. It’s just that Irish food is terrible. Want some of my chicken paprikash?”

“Yes, please." 

Patrick passed him the steaming paper tray. “And for the record, I’m third generation Irish Canadian. I’ve been splitting my time between New York and Montreal since 1869.”

David nearly choked on a bite of perfect chicken, which he would’ve been irritated about on multiple levels. His untimely demise, obviously, but also that he almost didn’t get to eat the rest of this chicken. “Anyway, what were you telling me about your mom?"

"Oh, right,” David said, clearing his throat. “So this one time, she interrupted my 4th grade choir recital with a stunning, if out of place, rendition of Moon River. Standing ovation. At least I think there was, I might've been astral projecting from embarrassment at that point."

"Wow."

"What about your parents?" David asked.

"Hm. No parents, exactly. Born from a solid gold cauldron at the end of a rainbow."

"Seriously?"

"No. Give me back my chicken, please."

*

"Where do you go when you're not dragging me to dive bars?" David asked, digging into his heaping plate of nachos.

"This isn't a dive bar. It's a gastropub. And I took you to that mom and pop Italian place last week."

"Mm. Right. Did you say that this place makes their chips in house?" David asked.

"Yup, Maria's a pro. And to answer your initial question - I've been around."

"Okay, good talk."

"I don't know what you want to know,” Patrick said with a shrug. “I do things, I go places. I see people."

"Oh good. I thought I was your only friend."

"We're friends?" Patrick said archly. 

_Shit_. "Well, just. You haven't tried to borrow money from me or steal my good weed, so I'd say we're kind of friends."

Patrick pressed a hand over his heart. "David, I'm touched. Also, a little concerned for you. Sounds like you need better friends."

David scowled, before turning his focus to building the perfect bite out of the various exemplary nacho components in front of him. 

"Hey, that's something you could wish for," Patrick said. "I couldn't _give you friends_ of course. But I could hand-select some worthwhile people for you to cross paths with in a perfectly natural way, and you'd be able to trust that they'd never steal your drugs." 

"Wow. Thanks, I'll pass."

"Friends are important."

"Interesting. Remind me, who are yours, besides me?" David asked, licking a stray bit of cheese off his finger.

"Linda, the records librarian at the 53rd Street Library, and I have a strong rapport. She finds me all the microfiche I could possibly want."

"Why...nevermind. That doesn't count. She's being paid to be nice to you."

"Counterpoint. Civil service workers aren't paid according to their friendliness, so I'd argue that the fact that she's told me all about Sparkles, her Boston Terrier, says even more about the strength of our connection."

"Sure. Are you going to eat that queso?" David asked. 

Patrick passed it over.

"You might be my best friend," David said through a mouthful of cheese.

"I know," Patrick said. 

*

"I'm having a bad day, Patrick. This isn't a good time," David said without looking to his right as someone hopped onto the bar stool next to him at Antonio's Elixirs. 

"How'd you know it was me without looking? I could've been anyone."

"You smell like fresh air and honeysuckle,” David slurred into his gin and tonic. “I'd recognize you anywhere without looking." 

"Wow, how many drinks deep are you?"

"Eleventy."

"Hm. I see."

"How'd you find me?" David asked, picking absently at the napkin beneath his glass.

"You weren't in the gallery this afternoon. I thought we were getting empanadas. Your office assistant tipped me off that you’d gone here.”

David leaned his head on his palm, looking at Patrick and wondering. "So you were worried about me?"

"No," Patrick said with a scoff. "I just really wanted empanadas."

"Hmm." 

Patrick signaled for the bartender. 

"You gonna drink with me?" David asked. 

"No. I'm taking you home."

Patrick handed the bartender a crisp, $100 bill, telling her to keep the change.

"That's not gonna be enough," David said, moodily.

"Jesus." Patrick handed the bartender another $100. "Prices in this town."

"Wow, flush with cash, are we?"

"Are you complaining that I bought your drinks?" Patrick said.

"No. You're very...nice. Where does the money come from?"

"Well, David, there's this thing called the U.S. Treasury..."

David rolled his eyes, downing the rest of his drink.

"The coins, obviously," Patrick said. "I pawned a few. There's always more where that came from."

"Must be nice."

"As if you are unfamiliar with the idea of unlimited wealth."

"Mine's not _unlimited_ ," David objected. "I'll have you know I'm very down to earth. A man of the people."

"Those shoes you're wearing cost $1200. I checked."

"A man of the people with _taste_."

"Let's go. I'll get us an Uber. I don't think you should be alone tonight, probably. We can’t get empanadas if you're dead."

"So sweet," David said, pouring himself off the barstool. "Wait, how’re you gonna get the Uber, I thought you didn't have a -"

Patrick pulled a phone from his pocket. 

"Oh."

"Figured it was probably time," Patrick said. "And this way, I can add photos to my Google Maps restaurant reviews."

David grimaced, stumbling a little. A classy stumble. No one saw. Patrick maybe saw. 

"Hey, I only ever leave five stars," Patrick added defensively.

"But what if a place isn't good?"

"You think I'd eat anywhere that isn't worth five stars?" Patrick asked rhetorically, slinging an arm around David's waist to hold him up.

"Point taken. So what's your apartment like? I'm picturing a mossy cave. Or a treehouse. Do you have a spare hammock for me?"

"You can sleep on my couch."

"Your treehouse-slash-cave has a couch? Wowwww."

"You're an asshole. It's a good thing I like you a little," Patrick said.

"You though, you're not an asshole," David said, fighting back the temptation to boop him on the nose in emphasis. "You're _nice_. I mean, you're an asshole too of course, but your defining trait is...nice."

"Thank you."

David leaned into Patrick's shoulder a little more than was technically required to stay vertical. He had the cover of alcohol to hide behind after all, so why not? Patrick had very leanable shoulders.

In the back of the Uber, David may have done some light nuzzling in his effort to find the most comfortable place on Patrick’s shoulder and/or chest to rest his extremely heavy head. Were heads supposed to be this heavy? Maybe he should see a doctor. Later, though. For now, he had Patrick’s very nice neck to breathe into. How did he smell like that? That wasn’t a human smell. Did all leprechauns smell that good, or only Patrick? Could he ask, or was that rude?

“No, David. I’m pretty sure all leprechauns do not have a defining scent.”

Oh, he said that out loud. This would have been more worrying, but David was having trouble finding the desire to care. While he’d been thinking about how good Patrick smelled and about heavy, heavy brains, Patrick’s hand had migrated from it’s friendly, neutral position around his shoulder to carding through the short hair at the back of his head. Which, rude - Patrick should’ve probably asked before touching the hair. Maybe he did though, David wasn't the best listener sometimes. And anyway, David wasn’t the least bit offended. Actually, that felt...that felt...

“That feels amazing. Never stop. Is your apartment in Hoboken? I hope it’s in Hoboken, so you can keep touching my hair. It’ll take us _forever_ to get to Hoboken.”

Patrick laughed softly. “Nope, not in Hoboken.”

David groaned as Patrick’s finger brushed over the shell of his ear on another pass through his hair. 

“Okay, David. We’re here.”

David nuzzled his face deeper into the criminally soft fabric of Patrick’s hoodie in denial. Patrick lightly shoved him off, but softened the blow by offering David a hand out of the car. When he let go of David’s hand to dig his house keys out of his pocket, David pressed his forehead to Patrick’s back, leaning heavily. 

“I might fall over if you keep that up,” Patrick said over his shoulder, attempting to work the key into the lock. 

“Well, I’m _definitely_ going to fall over if I stop leaning,” David grumbled. “You’re very leanable.”

“Are you always this cuddly when you’re drunk?” Patrick said, laughing. 

“Excuse you, I’m not cuddly,” David protested, an arm snaking around Patrick’s waist. For better leaning support. That was the only reason.

Patrick eventually got the door open, tugging David with him as they ambled toward the stairs. 

“So you can pull solid gold coins from thin air but you can’t afford a building with an elevator?” David complained, trudging up the first few stairs. The only thing that made this bearable was that Patrick was in front of him. His ass looked...motivating, if only David could make his legs cooperate. 

“Cardiovascular health is important," Patrick said, taking the stairs two at a time.

"I get my cardio on a Stair Master, not actual _stairs_ ," David wheezed.

"You haven't been to that gym in six months," Patrick said, turning around and looping his arm back around David's waist to help him up the last flight. "You said it's bougie, and you're right."

David took up his position leaning against Patrick's back again as Patrick worked the door to his apartment open. It was such a good back. Maybe David could just stay right here, like this, possibly forever, and Patrick wouldn't mind. Something to consider.

"Oh, it's so _green_ in here," David said, stumbling into Patrick's living room, after Patrick clicked on the lights. "Very on brand for you, since you're a..." He hiccuped. 

"Leprechaun. I get it, David. Don't hurt yourself."

David slumped onto the couch. "I like the plants," David said, carefully running a finger down the waxy, deep green leaf of the exotic-looking plant on Patrick's coffee table. "They're friendly."

"Except the Madagascar Palm to your left. It has thorns." 

"I like pretty, thorny things though," David said, eyeing Patrick where he was now leaning against the doorframe between the living room and what appeared to be the kitchen. He looked stupidly good like that, the long line of his legs having a sizeable effect on David's remaining functional brain cells. 

"I'm so glad I have your approval," Patrick replied, smirking. 

"My approval is very meaningful," David said, yawning and tipping over on the couch. 

"Mmhmm. Definitely. It's all I think about." Patrick said. "Okay, goodnight, David." Patrick turned to leave as though David was remotely prepared to sleep yet.

"Wait," David said, lurching to his feet.

Patrick turned around, a vaguely expectant look on his face. 

"Do you have, like, a spare toothbrush?"

"Under the sink in the bathroom."

"And something I could sleep in, maybe? This cashmere isn't the best bedwear."

"I'll leave a t-shirt and gym shorts for you in the bathroom. Along with some ibuprofen."

"Great. And some night cream, rosewater toner, vitamin C under-eye serum, something with high concentration retinoids -"

Patrick laughed, which was weird, because David wasn't kidding at all.

"Alas. My apartment isn't a fully-equipped spa. I might have some expired Neutrogena sunscreen somewhere..."

"Ugh. Well, it's you who'll be sorry when you have to look at this neglected face in the morning."

"Yes, what a hardship that will be for me," Patrick said. David was probably just drunk and delirious, but for a moment, it looked like Patrick’s eyes traveled down to his mouth for a moment. 

"You'll tell me about what's bothering you in the morning, right?" Patrick asked, face turning more serious.

David nodded. 

"Thank you, Patrick," David said softly to his retreating back. 

*

In the morning, David was no longer feeling grateful. In his impaired condition last night, he'd failed to register that Patrick's living room windows lacked shades, and sunlight had started it's D-Day assault on his eyelids at an ungodly 6:00 AM. 

"Paaaatrick," he groaned.

"What," Patrick said, appearing in the doorway, holding a steaming cup of something David was sure he needed in his body immediately.

As if reading his mind, Patrick set the mug down on the coffee table. David curled his hands around the cup, breathing in deeply.

"Single origin Tanzanian Peaberry, spot of cream, generous sprinkle of turbinado sugar," Patrick said, answering David's unspoken question. “Your coffee preferences are ridiculous, by the way.”

"Bless you." David took a sip - perfect. "You just happened to have my favorite varietal of coffee bean in your house?"

"No, I went to the pretentious coffee shop one block over and bought them before you woke up."

"You did not."

"I did."

"Why."

"You were sad last night. I don't know, David. I bought you coffee. It's not a big deal. It's nothing."

"This is not nothing. Almost enough for me to forgive you for your windows' lack of black out curtains."

"My plants like the early morning southern exposure. But I'll be better prepared next time."

"Thanks so much," David said, sipping the last of the coffee with an entirely appropriate amount of despair that Patrick hadn't brought him a ten gallon bucket of it for him to drown himself in instead of this inadequate little doll's mug.

Patrick tipped his head to the side, considering him. "Wanna get shakshuka? The Palestinian place downstairs is incredible."

"Fuck, yes," David said, before remembering an unfortunate truth. "My face though, shit. I can't go anywhere like this."

"This may come as a shock to you, but in fact, you can. People do it all the time."

" _Other_ people. Not me."

"David. They have fresh labneh and their baker, Nouran - you'd love her, she's great - makes the pitas every morning. She always gives me extras."

"Do you know every foodservice worker in this city?"

"Not yet," Patrick said. "I'm working on it."

"You're ridiculous. But...do you think she'd give me some of those pitas?"

"With your face like that? We'll see."

David flipped him off before trudging toward the bathroom to put on last night's bar-scented clothes. He combed his hands through his hair, shrugged, and followed Patrick out the door.


	2. Chapter 2

"You could just wish for the hangover to end," Patrick said, arching an eyebrow as he sipped his tea.

"No," David groaned, spearing a generous chunk of feta with his fork and popping it in his mouth. 

"Thought I had you there."

"Why are you in such a hurry for me to make my last two wishes? You want to get rid of me that badly?" David asked, and shit, it came out _sincere._ Blame the hangover. 

"Only a little. You’re okay, sometimes."

"Are you ever going to tell me how the whole wish-granting thing works in the first place?"

"Hm. Are you ever going to tell me why you were in a hipster bar drinking 'eleventy' neat whiskeys on a Tuesday?"

"Oh God. I hope you editorialized that 'eleventy.'"

"I did not."

"Ugh. It had been...a day."

"I'm sitting right here, a captive audience. Come on. Tell me."

"Do you think they have any baklava this early in the morning?" David asked, stalling.

"Let me check."

Patrick stood up and walked over to the counter, slipping behind it and through a doorway hung with a beaded curtain. A minute or two later, he returned with two plates and a proud grin. 

"Nouran says 'afwan.' You're welcome. She makes the filo dough herself, by the way."

"Ermagod," David moaned around a forkful of honey-soaked, pistachio-studded pastry. 

"I'll be sure to pass along your compliments."

"Is she single, by any chance?"

"She's been married for forty years, so I'm going to go with no. Also, last I checked, _you_ aren't single."

"Am now."

"Excuse me?"

"That was the reason for the eleventy whiskeys. Sebastien dumped me. Over text. Or more accurately, he had his suspiciously attractive assistant text me, so. Same thing."

"You know, there's no rule against using your wishes to make someone else's life...less enjoyable," Patrick said, scooping up some hummus in a torn off piece of pita with the casual menace of a midcentury mobster. 

“Um. You’re saying you’d...”

Patrick rolled his eyes. “I wouldn’t _murder_ him, David. I wouldn’t need to.”

David mentally added a new topic to his therapy to-do list: threats against his nefarious exes apparently got him hard. He picked at his napkin, shifting in his seat. 

“You’d do that? Exact some sort of petty, non-violent revenge on my behalf?”

“What makes you think I haven’t already?”

“If I say that’s sweet, does that make me a bad person?”

Patrick grinned at him. “I’m happy to be a little less pacificistic if you’d prefer. I really hate that guy.”

Something occurred to David. “But you didn’t know until just now that we’d broken up!”

“Correction. You may have slurred it into my neck on the cab ride to my apartment last night. Something about how Sebastien said you were ‘too attached to society’s inane architecture’ to be with him before he waxed poetic on the artistic merits of his assistant’s genitals. So I called his bank’s fraud reporting hotline this morning before you woke up.”

“I didn’t wish for that though. Drunken rambling doesn’t count!” 

“You didn’t have to wish for it. We’ll call it a favor rather than a wish. A freebie,” Patrick said with a dismissive wave of his hand. "If it doesn't require magic, there's some wiggle room in the rules."

David smiled to himself, pulling his lips between his teeth and trying not to let too much fondness creep onto his face. 

“God, he was really, really awful, wasn't he?” David said, sprinkling an extra pinch of za’atar on his eggs before taking another bite. 

“He really, really was. You could do better.”

“Mm, I’ll acknowledge that that’s an opinion you hold.”

“It’s not an opinion; it’s a fact.”

“A relative fact,” David said.

Patrick huffed in visible irritation.

“Almost everyone deserves better than that asshole, don’t you think?” Patrick asked, as though he could talk David out of what David knew were the stone cold facts.

“See, you get it. Almost everyone deserves better than me.”

“That’s not what I said -”

“I’m not asking for validation,” David went on, cutting him off. “I’m just stating the obvious based on extensive personal experience. I can’t do better. It’s just not going to happen for me.”

“David, I swear to God...”

“What?” David said, goading him. “You have a counter-argument?”

“You’re impossible. If I could make you wish for self-esteem, I would,” Patrick said. “At least, you have to know I -” Patrick cut himself off, shutting his mouth with an audible click.

“You what,” David said quietly. 

“I...I’ll just...see if Nouran has any fresh pitas.” 

Patrick pushed back from the table, abandoning David with whatever was left unsaid in that moment. David would be a lot more upset, but there might be freshly-made flatbreads in his future.

When he returned with both a refilled tray of pitas and to-go bag that looked to be generously full, David asked, "What would you wish for, if our positions were reversed?"

"Hm. Let's lock that one up for now, alright?" Patrick replied. 

David considered pressing the issue, but it could wait. There was bread to eat.

*

“Alexis, I _told_ you that the travel advisories for that part of Azerbaijan were legit, but did you listen to me? No!” 

David was pacing anxiously around his kitchen island, Alexis’ tinny voice in his ear, choppy and shrill. “You can gloat later, David! What I need is for you to call mom’s attorney, the good one - not the one we use for slap suits, and get him to -”

“Alexis!”

“I don’t belong in a Baku prison! It’s a miracle I could bribe the guard for a phone call. His wife apparently has the same shoe size as me, so I’ll also need you to get me a new pair of those custom Valentino’s you gave me for my birthday. The ones with the peridot studs in the straps, you know?”

“UGH!”

“The lawyer, David - add him to the line. I don’t have his number. Yours is the only one I have memorized.”

“Lucky me!”

There was a knock at David’s door. 

David frantically scrolled through his contacts, looking for the lawyer's name. Terry? Michael? Fuck, all David could remember about him was the way he pronounced 'specious' the one regrettable time David had required his services. " _These image infringement charges are speh-shee-us, David, I'm telling you. Your exhibit of satirical Margaret Thatcher fanart is protected under the law."_

More knocking. Who the fuck - "One second, Alexis."

" _DAVID_!" Alexis shrieked. "Lawyer, now!"

David looked through the peephole, and saw Patrick, complete with a white takeout bag. 

"I brought arepas," Patrick said, voice muffled by the door. "Let me in."

David unlocked and opened the door, waving Patrick inside. 

"Are we still going to watch Chef's Table?" Patrick asked, setting the takeout bag on the island and beginning to unpack it. 

David pointed at his phone. 

Patrick nodded in understanding, heading for David's fridge and rooting around.

 _Howard_. The lawyer's name was Howard. David conferenced him into the call, grateful in this moment that the Rose name bought immediate, round-the-clock access to legal assistance. 

When Howard picked up, David said, "Alexis, do you still need me on the call, or can I hang up?"

"I've got it from here," Alexis said breezily. 

David ended the call, leaving Howard to handle the Azerbaijani prison system. 

While he was dealing with all that, Patrick had been busy. He'd set out plates and forks, a bottle of hot sauce David didn't recognize from his own meager supply of shelf staples, sour cream, and two bottles of Mexican beer. 

"Did I have all this in my fridge?" David asked.

"I left the hot sauce here when I came over to watch Bake Off. Remember, we had fajitas?"

"Oh, right."

"Everything okay with Alexis?" Patrick asked.

"Generally, no."

Patrick handed him a plate of arepas, already doctored with the correct ratio of sour cream and hot sauce. 

"Anything I can do to help?" Patrick asked. 

David's phone buzzed against the countertop, _Howard_ flashing across the screen.

"Probably not. Hang on, I've got to take this. Remote's on the coffee table if you want to start without me."

Patrick squeezed his shoulder as he passed by David into the living room. David answered the call.

"Howard, all good?"

"David, your sister. How did she even _meet_ a senior member of the resistance coalition, let alone end up in a high stakes poker game in the basement of the capitol building? This one is beyond me. They've got her on six charges, ranging from -"

David stopped listening. Or rather, the ringing in his ears made absorbing what Howard was saying a challenge beyond his abilities. 

"What do you need me to do?" David asked. 

"I honestly don't know where to start with this. Give me twenty four hours," Howard said. "I need to call some people. A _lot_ of people."

"Okay," David said, before ending the call.

David wandered into the living room in a daze, taking in the sight of Patrick, curled up on David's couch with his socked feet tucked under him. It was unbearably domestic, and David ached. But now wasn't the time. 

"What's wrong?" Patrick asked, brow creased.

"Oh, um. Just, Alexis may have finally gotten into a situation I can't get her out of. And, I... _shit_ ," David said, pressing the heels of his hands to his eyes for a moment. 

Patrick set down his plate of food, circling the coffee table to stand in front of David. He placed his hands on David's shoulders, finding David's eyes and holding his gaze.

"Wish it. This isn't one I can do as a freebie."

"Okay, yeah," David gulped. "I wish you'd...get her home safe. Please."

Patrick nodded, wrapping his arms around David and pulling him in until David's face was in his neck, breathing in that one-of-a-kind, warm and green smell. Patrick's hands glided across his back in slow, firm strokes. 

"Breathe, David," Patrick murmured into his ear. "It'll just be a minute."

David took a shuddering breath. A couple of minutes passed. Patrick held him through it. 

"It's done. The warden is letting her out now. He just got a call from the judge - they're dropping all charges."

David shook, and he could feel the collar of Patrick's shirt growing damp from where his tightly-shut eyes were pressed against it.

"A cab is pulling up in front of the police station now, and a chartered jet is waiting for her at the airport."

Another few minutes passed, David couldn’t be sure how many. The wave of nausea that had hit him like a freight train with Alexis’ first, panicked call was receding. In its wake rose hopeful idiot butterflies as Patrick held him and held him. David's phone buzzed in his hand, the one not currently clenched in the back of Patrick’s shirt. David swiped to answer it, attempting to let go of Patrick only for Patrick to keep holding on. 

“Alexis?” David said.

“Oh my God, David - craziest thing. All the charges, and there were a _lot_ of charges, dropped. Can you believe it? Mom and Dad should give Howard a raise. And I guess Chris must’ve booked me a flight out of here, sweet thing.”

David frowned, hating that a Hemsworth was going to get credit for Alexis’ miraculous escape, when the real hero of the story was currently toying with the hem of David’s sweater and driving him rapidly insane. 

“I’ll be in New York in twelve hours. While is actually three hours from now, for you,” Alexis added, making David’s head spin, fucking time zones. “And the guard! He must’ve felt bad about being so mean to me. He gave me the Valentino’s back! So you can get me something else for my next birthday.”

“Oh, thank God,” David said with a wet laugh. 

“Yay, David! You must be so relieved. We should get dinner, when I get back! That cute place near your apartment, the one with the smoothies?”

Patrick shook his head vehemently against David’s shoulder, pulling back to mouth “ _Pizza_ ” at him. 

“How about pizza instead? My...friend...knows a place,” David said.

“Ugh, okay. Do they have cauliflower crust at least?” Alexis asked. 

Patrick shook his head again, suppressing a laugh into David’s sweater. 

“They definitely have cauliflower crust,” David lied. 

“Great! See you at 8:00 then! Byeee!”

The line cut out, and David could breathe again. Patrick stepped away from him, his hands trailing down David’s arms. 

“Thank you,” David said seriously. “I don’t know what else to say, just. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Help me reheat the food?”

“Yeah. Did you get chicken or pulled pork?”

“Both.”

“God, I...” David stopped himself, just in time.

“Hm?” Patrick said, balancing an impressive number of plates in both hands. 

“Nothing.”

“Okay...? Grab the plantains for me,” Patrick said, gracefully breezing past David’s near-confession. “Do you want to watch the episode with the guy who buries burning food in the ground, or the one with the mole sauce made out of ants?”

“Instead, can we -” 

“Rewatch the Bake Off finale?”

“Yes, please,” David said, turning away to rub at his traitorously wet eyes. 

*

“Okay, maybe I’m biased because I haven’t had real pizza since I was like, seven, but this is so fucking good,” Alexis said before taking another bite of her slice of pepperoni with jalapenos, red onions, and extra parm. If David had ordered Patrick’s favorite toppings even though he wasn’t here, who was to know. 

“Right?” David said, happily inhaling his own slice, enjoying it even more than usual. It made something loosen in his chest to watch Alexis eat real, solid food on safe ground.

“You look different,” Alexis said, giving him a considering look. 

“Um, thank you? Or is that an insult?” David replied. 

“Good different. Like, healthier. You’ve got kind of a glow - David, did you meet somebody? Or did you find a new aesthetician?”

“Uh, neither?” David said. “And there’s nobody. Nope.”

“Come on,” she whined, dragging out the ‘n.’

David rolled his eyes, giving in. His sister had escaped imprisonment today, after all. 

“Fine. There’s this...guy. Patrick. He’s nice. You’d like him, I think. We’re not together. Just friends.”

“Oh my God, you made a friend?” Alexis said, hand over her blackened heart. “That’s a huge deal for you.”

“Excuse me, I have several friends.”

Alexis pouted at him with theatrical pity.

“Okay, alright, yes. I admit it. This is new for me, the real friend thing.”

Alexis clapped her hands together. “We should celebrate! I want to meet him!”

“No. Absolutely not. You’ll ruin it. And there isn’t even really an ‘it’ to ruin.”

“Please, David?” Alexis said, placing her bony, perfectly manicured hand on his arm. 

“Why do I always end up doing whatever you want?” David sighed, not at all wanting an answer.

“That’s easy. You’re the older child, but also kind of my other dad. Oh my God, you remember that one time Mom and Dad forgot us in Turks and Caicos for like, _eight_ _days_ , and you nearly had an absolute conniption when I wandered away from our cabana on the beach?”

“I thought you’d gotten snatched! You were nine years old!” David exclaimed. 

“You always worry so much. You should talk to someone about that,” Alexis said, patting his hand condescendingly. “It’ll give you wrinkles. Well, _more_ wrinkles.”

“May I remind you, you were coming up on a life sentence in an autocratic country not nine hours ago. My life-long worry is merited. I’ve earned these crow’s feet.”

Alexis sighed, her shoulders sagging. “Okay, maybe you’re right. Sometimes I get a little...overly adventurous. Maybe. And I’m - regretful - that you were worried.”

“Wow, that was an excellent apology.”

“I’m sorry, alright? I won’t do that again. In Azerbaijan, anyway.”

“So generous,” David said through his clenched teeth. He should bill Alexis for his night guard. “Especially when there’s no way in hell they’d give you another tourist visa.”

“Work permit.”

“You were there under a _work permit_? What kind of work?!” 

“Mm, let’s not, ‘k?” Alexis replied cagily. “Come on, I want to meet Patrick. Text him!” 

“I was just with him this morning. He’s going to think I’m needy.”

“Well, you are, so the sooner he figures that out, the better.”

“You’re the worst,” David retorted. 

“Mm. Speaking of the worst - how’s Sebastien?”

“Gone.”

“Oh, David, I’m sorry! I mean, he was terrible. Like, _heinous_ , but you liked him so much!”

“No, it’s good. Truly. He did me a favor. I see that now.”

“Wow, that’s really self-aware. New therapist?”

“...No.”

“Ah, Patrick again.”

“I’m capable of insight on my own, you know,” David said defensively.

“Are you, though?” Alexis said, tipping her head to the side. 

“Why did I get you out of that jail cell...” David bemoaned. 

“Excuse me, what? I thought I just heard that _you_ got me out of there, when we both know it was Howard. And Chris. You should find yourself someone like Chris. He’s so -”

“Okay, I can’t take it. It wasn’t Chris Hemsworth, or _Howard_ , who saved you today. It was Patrick.”

“I...don’t get it. Does he work for the state department or something? That could be really handy, if he does. You should give me his number, just in case I get into any other sticky situations down the road.”

“He doesn’t work for the state department.”

“Oh...I see. David, you should be careful. I’ve done the organized crime gambit, and yes, it’s very sexy with the weapons and the getaway cars and all that, but I don’t think it’s your scene.”

“He’s not in the mafia. He’s just. He -”

Alexis gave him an expectant look as he tried to devise a softened way to say that Patrick was a little...different.

“I can’t tell you. Just. He’s the one who rescued you. So when you meet him, keep that in mind. I can’t say any more than that.”

“Ooh, that’s very intriguing,” Alexis said with a hideous wink. 

“If you promise to stay out of any countries with a history of human rights abuses for the next few months, I’ll text him.”

Alexis held her limp-wristed hand out for him to shake, which David hesitantly did. 

He pulled out his phone. 

**David:**

_Hey, you busy?_

**Patrick:**

_Just at the library._

**David:**

_The library’s still open? It’s late!_

**Patrick:**

_Linda lets me lock up when I leave. What’s up?_

**David:**

_Alexis wants to meet you._

_If you’re not too deep in the microfiche right now_

**Patrick:**

_Sure, where?_

**David:**

_You pick, obviously_

Patrick sent him a maps link to a tequila bar in Hell’s Kitchen that David had never heard of. 

*****

In the back of the yellow cab, Alexis fell asleep on his shoulder, jerking awake disoriented when they stopped at a red light a few blocks from the bar. 

“We don’t have to go out,” David offered. “We could go back to my apartment instead. You could sleep in my guest room.”

“But I want to meet Patrick,” Alexis said with an enormous yawn. 

“I could see if he wants to come over.”

“Do that, please,” Alexis said sleepily, leaning on his shoulder again. 

David texted Patrick quickly to see if they could just pick him up in front of the bar and head back to David’s. He confirmed right away.

“Did I happen to leave any clothes at your house last time I stayed with you? My luggage _may_ have gotten seized by customs. Something about undeclared gemstones.”

David shook his head at her in exasperation tinged with involuntary fondness. 

“Yeah, you left a shitload of stuff last time, when you were coming back from Kyoto, remember?”

“That’s right. Ugh, it’s last season, but it’ll work, I guess.”

“Patrick wears polyester blend sweaters. He won’t notice.”

The cab driver pulled up in front of the bar, and David let him know they’d be making another stop. Patrick was standing on the sidewalk, giving David a little wave when they met eyes through the window. 

David slid into the middle seat, so that Patrick didn’t have to walk into the street to get into the back of the cab. 

Patrick slid into the seat next to him, their thighs pressing together. 

“Hey, David. Hi, Alexis.”

“Hi,” David said. 

“Patrick, so nice to meet you,” Alexis said, reaching across David to offer Patrick her hand for him to awkwardly shake.

"Nice to meet you too. Glad to see you're...doing well."

"I hear that's thanks to you," Alexis said with another of her double-eyed winks. 

"No trouble at all," Patrick said, eyeing David significantly.

"Yes, I was just telling Alexis that you have some interesting...competencies. That came in handy. On this particular misadventure."

"Ah."

“The source and origin story of those competencies I left a mystery," David added.

“I totally get it, Patrick. When I was seventeen -”

Thus began a long and winding story of Alexis escaping the Yakuza or the Greek mafia or one of several American crime families. If pressed, David couldn’t provide specifics, as Patrick’s thigh was currently pressed knee to hip against his in the back of a confined space. Even the presence of his sister couldn’t distract every atom in his body from that. 

“So we’re here,” David said, interrupting Alexis’ monologue and Patrick’s polite questions about how to escape from a locked bank vault. 

*

David brewed the mint tea that Patrick had left at his apartment a while back, rejoining Alexis and Patrick as they discussed Alexis’ role in the Liancourt Rocks border dispute between South Korea and Japan. Alexis was slumped on Patrick’s shoulder, speaking with her eyes closed. 

“I think she might already be asleep,” Patrick whispered. “She just mixed up Russian and Chinese interests in the Kuril and Senkaku Islands.”

“I’ll put her to bed,” David said, handing Patrick a mug of tea. 

David knelt to scoop Alexis up, her arms wrapping around his neck. 

“Thanks, David,” she slurred, as David laid her on her side in his guest bed. "You're a good brother, you know that? Better than I deserve probably."

David blinked at her for a moment. He took her blessedly simple ankle boots off and pulled the blankets over her before leaving. She’d be furious in the morning about going to bed with a full face of makeup, but David could deal with that then. 

David sat down heavily next to Patrick.

"You want me to take off?" Patrick asked.

"No, I don't," David said with enough honest decisiveness to surprise even himself. 

"Okay."

The silence hung for a moment.

"Do you want to watch Top Chef?" David asked.

"Yeah. Hand me the remote."

David passed it over.

Two episodes later, David paused the credits. "Alexis said I'm a good brother."

"Mmhmm. Are you...surprised by that assessment?"

"Maybe? She's never said they before. She was probably already sleeping and didn't mean it."

"I think she meant it. And anyway, it's true," Patrick said pouring both David and himself another cup of tea.

"Thanks."

"Do you know what you want for your third wish?" Patrick asked, handing him his mug.

"No idea. What should I wish for?" 

"I can't answer that for you."

"What would you wish, for yourself?" David asked. "I asked before, but you didn't tell me."

"Ah. It's complicated."

"So was extracting Alexis from Azerbaijan."

"Relatively speaking, that was easy."

"Okay, very mysterious. So it's a leprechaun thing then?"

Patrick laughed softly, but it sounded sad to David's ears. 

"Yes, a leprechaun issue. Very astute observation."

David nudged him gently with his elbow, encouraging him to continue. 

"So I was getting sambusas this afternoon, you know that Somali place on West 116th?"

David nodded.

"And there was this big family there - kids, parents, grandparents, the works - celebrating a birthday. They'd brought in a cake and everything. I...I think maybe...I want that."

"You...want a birthday party at the sambusa place?" David asked carefully.

Patrick rolled his eyes. "Not exactly. I just want a birthday, to actually age. And maybe some kind of family, a partner or something? Don't need the party."

David sipped his tea, trying to formulate a thoughtful response.

"I could throw you a killer party though."

"I appreciate that," Patrick said, with a wry smile. "Not really the point though. It's just, I've been an observer for a long time. I've seen some incredible things, eaten some incredible food. And even occasionally met someone worth knowing."

He gave David a significant look. 

"But I'm not really a part of any of it. Everything, and everyone, goes on without me eventually. I want to stick, I want to actually _stay_ here. Age with this place and the people in it. For my life to mean something to someone."

"Is that why you're befriending everyone in Manhattan?" David asked. 

"Only the good ones,” Patrick. David felt himself blush, which was stupid, and embarrassing. He couldn’t be held responsible for whatever his face was doing. It had been an intense day.

“And these last few months, I haven’t had to worry about anyone else’s stupid wishes, because you gave me my rings back. That hasn't happened in a while.”

“Wait, back up - explain that.”

“I haven’t worn these rings since 1639,” Patrick said, holding up his right hand, the rings glinting on his index and ring fingers. “Lost them in a bad bet in a Dublin pub, drunk off my ass on really awful mead. I've been granting wishes on two continents ever since to try to get them back."

"Why grant wishes? Why not just..." David pantomimed something vaguely violent. 

"See, the thing is, I can't take the rings, or buy them outright - they have to be given to me."

"I seem to recall you offering me gold for them," David pointed out.

"Ah. Yeah. I'd gone a little off-script, with you. You kind of...took me off guard," Patrick said. "Don't look so fucking _pleased._ "

David schooled his expression, pulling his smile between his teeth. 

"You said two continents - why'd you leave Dublin?" David asked. 

"Samuel O'Connor immigrated at seventeen when his parents starved to death in the Great Famine, and he saved his last wish for when he arrived in Brooklyn. The rings and I have been in either New York or Montreal since then."

"Wow. Wait, why Montreal?"

“Had to decide which bagels I liked better. Took a few decades. _Anyway_ , most people, you may have noticed, aren't particularly prone to acts of disinterested generosity. So I give them what they wish for, and hope they give me back the rings. But sometimes... almost every time... they're less than perfectly satisfied with the outcome of their wishes. And so they pawn the rings at Big Marty's.”

“It's always Big Marty’s? That place didn’t exactly look like a mid-19th century historical landmark,” David said, skeptically. 

Patrick huffed a laugh. “No, figuratively. They end up in different places. Other pawn shops, antique stores, flea markets... the Gowanus Canal once. That was messy. Did you know it's full of toxic blue crabs?"

"I did not," David said with a shudder. “So when I put them on that day in the pawn shop...”

“I got a little ping, a little geo-signal type of thing. Don’t worry about it. It’s too hard to explain.”

“Mhm. Okay. Sure. Leprechaun LoJack. Gotcha,” David said, nodding in an entirely calm and normal way. 

Patrick ignored his little breakdown. “So yeah, the break’s been nice. And as long as I don’t go anywhere near mead or dice ever again, yours might be the last wishes I ever grant.”

Something upsetting occurred to David. 

“Wait, that’s not...why. You’re still...around. Is it?” He very much didn’t approve of the open fragility in his voice. “Like if I just, I don’t know, wished for my mom to voluntarily go to rehab and the wishes were over with, you’d -”

"Can I show you something?”

David nodded. 

Patrick set his mug on the coffee table, and retrieved his satchel from the coat rack by the door. He always had it with him whenever David met up with him after one of his trips to see Linda in the New York Public Library’s Archives.

Patrick sat down next to him and pulled out a ChromeBook. For whatever reason, David had been expecting something a little more archaic. A scroll, maybe. A spooky journal bound in dried human skin. 

“Don’t look so shocked,” Patrick said, apparently clocking the surprise on David’s face. “This is the most efficient way to store scanned microfiche.”

Patrick opened the screen, and navigated to a folder on his desktop containing what looked like hundreds of image files. He clicked on the first one, and a scanned copy of an old newspaper article appeared on the screen. 

“ _January 18, 1909 - Laundresse Inherits Oil Fortune, Adopts 800 Cats_ ,” David read aloud.

“Go ahead. Look at some of the others.”

_March 7, 1886 - Steelworker Strikes It Rich in Alaskan Gold Rush_

_December 12, 1998 - NYU Professor Discovers Cure for Daughter's Cancer_

_July 29, 1967 - Eight Year Old Catches Six Consecutive Home Runs at Yankee Stadium_

_October 7, 2013 - The Newly-Invented Cronut Takes Over SoHo_

_April 10, 1971 - Twin POW Brothers from Brooklyn Returned Home Safely_

Patrick gently took the mug from David's trembling hands and set it on the coffee table. 

David cleared his throat. "These were all you?" 

"Yeah," Patrick said, twisting the ring on his index finger. "Obviously, there are a lot more. Most of which didn't make the papers. Suzie Galenton making a better blueberry pie than her mother-in-law in 1914 wasn't deemed news-worthy, I guess."

"And these _assholes_ didn't give you back your rings after you did all this for them?"

"You may have noticed this, and if not, I'm sorry to be the bearer of bad news - most people are less than great. Also, people tend to use the first one or two wishes on the greatest desires of their hearts or whatever, and the third gets a little less pizazz."

"Oh, speaking of - you said you wanted a birthday. Or to age, whatever. And a family. So what's the wish, exactly?"

"To be mortal."

"To be mortal," David parotted back. "To age and get wrinkles and denchers and eventually die..."

"And to have the chance to actually live. Alongside someone, maybe. I don't think you appreciate what that could mean, David. To be with somebody like that."

"I don't think I do," David near-whispered.

“You should. Appreciate it,” Patrick softly. 

“Hm. Maybe you should tell me what could be so great about it. Help me understand.”

David was daring him. Patrick leaned forward, and David stopped breathing.

Suddenly, there was an untimely interruption. 

“David, have you seen my shin guards and cleats? I need you to take me to soccer practice,” Alexis said, standing in the hallway door, her eyes open but unfocused. “Do you have the orange slices? Victoria’s mom said it’s your turn to bring them.”

Patrick widened his eyes at him. 

“I’ll be right there, Alexis,” David said, still looking at Patrick. 

“ _Stay here_ ,” David mouthed at him. 

Patrick smiled at him, waving him on. 

David looped an arm around Alexis’ shoulders and walked her back to the guest room, reassuring her all the way that he had enough orange slices for Alexis’ scrimmage against the Blue Jayettes that morning. 

David resettled back on the couch. “She used to sleepwalk all the time, growing up. Especially if our parents were fighting. I’d always walk her back to her room. I think it’s a stress thing."

"Hmm. Good brother indeed.”

David shrugged off the compliment. He didn’t particularly want to think about his sister right now, when there were other, more interesting things that might, or might not, have been about to happen.

“Where were we?” David asked. 

“Mortality.”

“Huh. I think we might have been talking about something... else,” David said. “Maybe. I could be wrong.”

“What do you think we were talking about?” Patrick asked, tipping his head to the side, innocently. Troll.

“Come on.”

“Remind me.”

“You were saying something about how I need to be more appreciative. Of people. Relationships. And I should say, I am really...really appreciative. Of them. Certain ones in particular.”

“I see,” Patrick said, leaning back against the arm of the couch, the casual sprawl of his legs an indecent invitation. Or maybe David had gone insane. 

Because why would a centuries-old person (entity? being?) be interested in him. That said, Patrick was definitely eyeing him with something that looked suspiciously like interest. 

“Okay, I’m going to pass out if you don’t just -”

Patrick reached across the couch, for David’s hand. He flipped it over, resting it palm up on his knee. He traced a finger over the line in the center. 

“Have you ever had your palm read?”

“...No,” David said. “Well, once, kind of? Alexis was dating this supposed clairvoyant, but he told me I’d only live to seventeen, so.”

“There’s an art to palmistry. May I?” Patrick asked, circling the tip of his index finger over the pad of David’s thumb. 

“Sure. Yeah.” David would agree to anything right now, if it meant Patrick’s touch would continue. 

Patrick picked up his hand, tracing the outside edge from the end of his pinky finger to his wrist. 

“Water hands, that’s your hand shape. Long fingers, long palms. You’re imaginative, and intuitive. You absorb more of the pain of others than you let on. Your feelings are hurt easily.”

“Hey,” David protested weakly, as if it wasn’t true. 

Patrick continued, touching the base of his ring finger. “Highly pronounced Mount of Apollo. That’s unsurprising.”

“Why is that unsurprising?” David asked. 

“It means you have refined aesthetic tastes, and a love for beauty.”

“Mmhmm. Yes, I’ll accept that. What else is great about me?”

Patrick hummed, tracing his finger first to the outer than the inner edge of David’s palm. David shivered. 

“Underdeveloped Mounts of Mars.”

“Uh oh.”

“You struggle with timidity. And you can be impetuous. An interesting combination, and one tied to self-destructive impulses.”

“Wow. Thanks.”

“Hey, I just work with what’s here,” Patrick said, head still bowed over David’s palm. “Your life line is short.”

“Ohhhkay. I think I’m done,” David said, tugging his hand away. But Patrick held on.

“Will you just - _patience_ , alright? This is probably why Alexis’ boyfriend said you were going to die young. That’s not what a short life line means though. It actually indicates independence. You’re free - you don’t let other people influence you. It’s an indication of autonomy, not death.”

“Oh. Well that’s okay then, I guess,” David said quietly, relaxing his clenched fingers and letting his hand sit open again. 

Patrick ran the blunt nail of his index finger over the line in the center of David’s palm. 

“You have a nice head line, it represents how your mind works. Deep and wavy.”

Was it possible to die of a palm reading? David purposefully took a slow, deep breath, willing his heart to stop its frantic attempt to escape his ribcage. 

“That means you're creative, and thoughtful - introspective. And these breaks - those are epiphanies. You have a lot of them, and most of them are yet to come.”

Why did that - shit. David blinked rapidly. Patrick’s focus blessedly stayed on the lines of his palm. 

“Your fate line is interesting - there’s something significant shortly after you were born. Someone important came into your life.”

“Oh. Um. That’d be Adelina, I think.”

“Like the name of your gallery?”

David nodded. “Yeah. She was my nanny, growing up. I called her ‘mom,’ even, for a while. My actual mother hated that, but it was more or less true, especially when I was young.”

Patrick hummed in response, his finger moving up toward the base of David’s fingers. 

“And your heart line. Oh.”

“Um, excuse me, what does ‘oh’ mean?” David asked. 

“Nothing. Totally normal heart line,” Patrick said, closing David’s fingers over his palm.

“Well, what? Come on, tell me. I’ve got to know now.”

Patrick sighed, uncurling David’s fingers. 

“You see these breaks?” Patrick asked, running his finger over the start of the line under David’s pinky finger. 

“Breaks sound... not good.”

“It just means heartbreak. Early, and frequent, heartbreak.”

“Fantastic. But also not news to me, I could have told you that,” David said. 

“Sure. But then, it’s all fine. So. That’s it.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You meet someone, okay? You fall in love with them. How deep the line is, after this point? That’s commitment. See all these little offshoots upward? That’s a successful marriage. Then the line ends between the Mounts of Jupiter and Saturn - that means it’s a real, true love.”

“And when does this happen? When does it start?” David said, barely above a whisper.

“It already did. A couple months ago.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to the Rosebudd and it's gorgeous barkeep, [OliveBranchesandRedWine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/olivebranchesandredwine/pseuds/olivebranchesandredwine)!!
> 
> Thank you for creating the place in which I love to whine and scream about writing, and to [This_Is_Not_Nothing](https://archiveofourown.org/users/this_is_not_nothing/pseuds/this_is_not_nothing) for tolerating the same!

"I'm sorry, I must have heard you wrong. My GP _warned_ me that the decibel level at the candy raves of my youth was going to wreak havoc on my adult hearing. Clearly, she was right because I could have sworn you just said, 'A couple months ago.' Which is obviously crazy because I'd definitely... know. If I'd met someone a couple months ago who I... who I. Um. And anyway, the only significant person I've met in the last few months is... well. But no, that can’t be -"

David might have been hyperventilating. Just a little. Mild over-breathing, that was all it was. It was totally normal that he couldn't feel his legs, right? 

Patrick clapped his hands to his knees as though to punctuate the end of David’s admittedly incoherent ramble, an unreadable expression on his face. "I'll just... head out, then. Give you more time to... oscillate."

David's hand gripped Patrick's wrist entirely without his Thinking Brain's sign-off. 

"Don't go."

Patrick used his David-free hand to scrub at his eyes. 

"This was a mistake, okay?” Patrick said, not looking at him. “I shouldn't have told you that. This looks like pressure, and it's not, alright? It's just a stupid palm reading. It doesn't have to mean anything."

David was quickly coming to some major, urgent realizations. Epiphanies indeed. 

"What if I want it to, though?" David asked. “Mean something, that is.”

Patrick dropped his hand from his face, bringing his eyeline up to meet David's. 

"You can't possibly mean that," Patrick said quietly. 

Now David was offended. “Why not, exactly?”

“It’s not you. It’s just that people don’t, generally, about _me_ , I mean. It hasn’t been my experience that anyone would, um. I’m just trying to say, it wouldn’t be your _fault_ if you don’t.”

“Okay that sentence was missing several critical verbs,” David said, fiddling with the cuff of Patrick’s sweater. “Mind filling in the blanks for me?”

“How about tomorrow, alright? It’s late, and your sister’s in the next room...”

“And why, exactly, would my sister’s proximity mean that we can’t...talk?” David asked, the corner of his mouth lifting despite the anxious static electricity coursing through his nervous system, neurons lit up and hyper aware of Patrick’s knee against his own, Patrick’s pulse thrumming under his fingers, still wrapped around Patrick’s wrist. 

“I just think that maybe we’d want privacy? For that," Patrick said. "For the talking.”

“The _talking_. Right. Sounds wise.”

“I’m very wise, after all,” Patrick said, twisting his wrist in David’s grip in order to bring David’s hand to his mouth, lips ghosting over his knuckles. 

“Oh, _fuck you_ ,” David whispered, fighting back a swoon. 

Patrick smirked, releasing his hand. “Yes, please.”

“That’s... that's not fair.”

“I never claimed to be good. Just very, very nice.”

Had Patrick’s voice always sounded that stupidly, ridiculously sexy? David watched wordlessly as Patrick gathered up his Chromebook, wrapping the charge cord around his hand in a way that was giving David ideas. 

Needing to keep his hands busy so that he didn’t do something idiotic like pin Patrick back against the couch, David cleared their mugs and the teapot from the coffee table. When he returned from the kitchen, Patrick was just tying the laces of his boots. 

David cleared his throat. “Can we talk tomorrow?”

Patrick looked up at him, and wasn't that a picture. 

“We can talk whenever you’d like.” 

*

At 3 o'clock in the morning, David was awakened from a beautiful dream about a very naked Patrick by the sound of someone ransacking his apartment. He nearly reached for his phone to dial 911 before it hit him - Alexis. 

He stumbled into the kitchen, immediately encountering a bedraggled version of his sister, looting his refrigerator. 

"Why is there _nothing_ in your fridge, David?" Alexis said. 

"First, it's three-fucking-A-M in the morning. Second, there's a ton of good stuff in there. What are you talking about?"

David butted in beside her, retrieving a wedge of brie, a chunk of sharp cheddar, and a honeycrisp apple. 

"Move," he said to Alexis, bending to open the freezer, digging for the bag of sliced sourdough Patrick had picked up at the Union Square Greenmarket a couple weeks prior. Alexis backed away from the fridge, hopping up to sit on the counter.

The Kerrygold butter was already perfectly spreadable, safe in its ceramic dish on the counter. David dropped the slices of bread in the toaster to thaw while he shredded the cheese.

Alexis watched him from her perch on the countertop as he rinsed the apple under the tap, fiddling with the hair tie on her wrist. 

"Make yourself useful. Cutting board is in the cupboard next to the oven. Here's a knife - slice the apple," David instructed. "Thinly."

Alexis nodded, unusually cooperative. Must have been the jet lag. They worked in tandem as David set a cast iron pan on one of the burners to preheat and buttered the bread. 

Alexis peered over his shoulder. 

"Are you sure about that much -"

"I'm sure," David interrupted. "Hand me the apples."

David placed slices of brie on the bottom piece of bread, layering on the apples and then a generous sprinkle of cheddar before added the top piece of sourdough. He checked to make sure the burner was set to a gentle-enough heat to allow the cheese to melt thoroughly as the bread browned.

"Do you want any soup with it?" David asked, using a spatula to carefully lift up a corner of the bread and check the underside. "I think I have some tomato bisque in the freezer."

"Okay, what the hell, David."

"What?" David replied, without turning around. It was critical to make sure the bread browned evenly, and didn't scorch. Patrick had been very clear on that point.

"Like, I go away for two months, and -"

"Six months," David cut in, facing her. The sandwich still had another couple minutes on that side anyway. "You were gone for six months."

"Alright, _fine_ , six months. Irregardless -"

"That's not a word."

"Christ, David!" Alexis said, slapping her palms on the counter.

"Apologies. You were accusing me of something. Go on."

"You're really different, okay?" she said.

"Hm."

"You can cook now, for starters."

"Cooking is an essential life skill," David retorted, flipping the sandwich carefully to brown the other side. Alexis didn't need to know the fine art of grilled cheese sandwiches was the first and only cooking skill David had absorbed from Patrick so far. Patrick had promised-slash-threatened that the syllabus for his imminent culinary education was forthcoming.

"And since when do you care about life skills?"

"Since now, I guess. I just think you should probably eat something decent. I want you to, I think. I can't explain it. It...it makes me happy, maybe. Don't ask me why."

"Oh," Alexis said in a small voice. 

"It's just, these last few months, someone's been kind of taking care of me, and I want to take care of you. A little. Right now. Not like, in general. God forbid. But right at this minute, I want you to eat this fucking sandwich."

"He's really good for you, isn't he? Patrick, I mean," Alexis said.

"He really is," David replied, surprised that it didn't cause him visceral pain to admit that aloud. He sliced the sandwich on the diagonal, plated it, and handed it to Alexis.

"Split it with me?" she said.

"Sure," David said, grabbing another plate and letting Alexis slide half of the sandwich over. 

The dining table and couch might as well have been miles away, the kitchen a timeless cocoon. So David hopped up next to Alexis on the counter. 

"This is the best thing I've ever eaten," Alexis said after a moment. 

They ate the rest of their sandwiches in companionable, contented silence. 

*

David awoke disoriented the next morning. Afternoon. Whatever time it was. Over the last couple months, he’d gotten used to waking up at a more productive hour of the day, motivated by the prospect of breakfast with Patrick. His middle-of-the-night meal with Alexis had thrown him off his routine. 

He reached for his phone. 1 o’clock in the afternoon, and he had several unread texts from Patrick. The haze of sleep faded immediately.

**Patrick, 9:30 AM:**

_Hey, do you want to get chicken and waffles for breakfast_

**Patrick, 9:42 AM:**

_Fine we can get nutella crepes again_

**Patrick, 10:36 AM:**

_I know you said fried chicken before noon is tacky, but you’re wrong_

_img_01846292.jpg_

Patrick had included a photo of his plate at the southern revival place he loved, chicken golden brown and crispy enough that David could almost hear it crackle through his phone screen. 

**Patrick, 11:02 AM:**

_I take it you’re still asleep. Hope everything’s ok with Alexis_

**Patrick, 11:14 AM:**

_I like her_

**Patrick, 11:15 AM:**

_To clarify, I don’t like her-like her. I’m gay as hell. Probably should’ve told you that at some point, huh_

**Patrick, 12:09:**

_That was weird to say over text._

David was smiling like a lunatic, here in the privacy of his own room. No one had to know. 

There was a tap at his door. 

"David?" Alexis said. 

"What."

"Do you know how to make eggs?" Alexis asked, opening the door a crack to peer in at him. "I think... I think I'm hungry."

David quickly slid his phone beneath his pillow as if Alexis could read Patrick's texts from across the room. 

"One second. I'll be there in a minute," he said.

Alexis scrunched up her face in one of those _I Dream Of Jeannie_ smiles and shut the door. David pulled his phone back out to reply to Patrick.

**David, 1:11 PM:**

_Lunch?_

**Patrick, 1:11 PM:**

_Obviously. Ramen?_

Patrick included a map pin of a nearby noodle bar. 

**David, 1:12 PM:**

_Give me an hour_

**Patrick, 1:12 PM:**

_They close at 2:30. Better hurry. Your face will survive._

David smiled to himself, stupidly pleased to be mocked. In spite of - whatever was going on - Patrick was still the same. Not that anything was going on. That hand kiss though, that was something, maybe. 

Still, nothing more might happen. Things might stay exactly as they were. David would slowly and casually lose his entire mind, and Patrick would mock him through it. 

**David, 1:13 PM:**

_Ugh, fine. Half an hour._

**Patrick, 1:14 PM:**

🍜👍

Maybe Alexis had left some dry shampoo on her last layover in his apartment. Dear Christ, what had he been reduced to? 

“ _David_? Am I supposed to add something to the pan before the eggs?” Alexis called from the kitchen, sounding frantic. “I don’t know if there’s supposed to be this much smoke?!” 

Shit. First things first. Prevent a fire, fix his hair.

Talk to Patrick. 

*

David slid into the booth across from Patrick 32 minutes later. A mammoth feat he hoped to never be called upon to replicate.

"You made it," Patrick said with a teasing smile. "I wasn't sure you would."

"Don't underestimate the magnetic power of... noodles," David replied.

"Right. It's the noodles that brought you here."

The server sidled up to their table before David could devise a clever and suitably flirtatious retort.

"Good afternoon, gentlemen. Good to see you, Patrick!"

"Hey Ichika, how are you? How's Hana doing?"

The server, ‘Ichika’ apparently, relaxed her professional posture, her entire demeanor shifting and loosening. She pulled up a spare chair at their table, spinning it around so her elbows were resting on its back when she sat down. 

"Oh, she's exhausting,” Ichika groaned. “She just learned to crawl, so that's awful. I miss when she just sat there, you know? I love her, of course, but just, _babies_ , dude..." 

Patrick hummed in understanding, smiling at her. “She’ll get older eventually, right? Soon enough, she’ll be a teenager and talking back to you.”

“So much to look forward to,” Ichika said with an eyeroll. “Good thing she’s cute. Speaking of _cute_ , who’s this?” 

"This is David,” Patrick replied. 

David gave her a little wave. 

“Well, hello David. You’re Patrick’s friend? He’s never brought anyone with him before. Interesting.” 

“So yeah, so now you know David,” Patrick said, giving Ichika a significant look. “We'll get two bowls of tonkotsu ramen, please. And say ‘Hi’ to Hana for me.”

Ichika laughed wrly. “Sure. Hana says, ‘I don’t give a shit about you, gimme a bottle,’ but okay, I’ll pass along the message. Two bowls of the number four, coming up. Nice to meet you, David,” she added with a wink before walking away.

“So she seems nice,” David said. 

“She’s great. Her daughter is the only baby I like. Total asshole,” Patrick said, with enough fondness to make ‘asshole’ a term of endearment. 

“A fine quality in an infant."

“I bet you were a spectacular asshole as a baby,” Patrick said. 

“Mmhmm. Of course. Sometimes Adelina would talk about my early years with the look of a war veteran back from the trenches of the Western Front.”

“Knew it.”

"So," David began, with no formulated plan for how exactly he'd tactfully change the subject. 

"So."

"The palm reading thing," David added, hoping Patrick would take it from there.

"Ah, yes. You know, we're still not somewhere private, so we'd better -"

"Oh, I see how it is. You want to watch me eat ramen first, which there is no sexy way to do. Believe me, I googled it on the walk over here."

Patrick snorted a laugh. "I've seen you eat _ribs_. And I'm still here."

Ichika returned, setting a steaming bowl down in front of each of them before smiling with an unsettling degree of knowingness and strolling away.

"You say that like it's comforting... but it's not," David said, imagining with retroactive horror what he'd looked like, barbecue sauce smeared around his mouth.

"Well, it should be."

Patrick gracefully entangled a bundle of noodles in his chopsticks, slurping them with unselfconscious abandon before systematically alternating through the pork, soft-boiled egg, and vegetables.

David gave in. He spread a napkin over his lap and tucked another into the collar of his sweater for good measure. After the first bite, he forgot to care that Patrick could see him. 

When they came up for air a few delicious minutes later, David licked his lips, chasing the flavor of the salty broth. Patrick's eyes tracked the movement. Maybe there was a sexy way to eat ramen after all. 

"What are you doing after this?" Patrick asked, scratching at the back of his neck. Was David imagining that he looked a little... nervous?

"Nothing. You?"

"Nothing. Did you still want to, uh, talk?"

"Mmhmm. Yes. Definitely," David said, then added, "If you do."

"Yeah, we can do that," Patrick said, digging for his wallet and laying a couple of bills out on the table, not looking at David.

"Alexis is crashing with me for a couple days. Could we -"

Patrick nodded. "My place, sure." 

Why was David getting the distinct impression Patrick wasn't looking forward to this conversation?

"If you don't want to - I know you said you don't want this to look like pressure for me. That goes both ways. We can just... go back to normal, if you wanted. Pretend the palm reading never happened."

"I don't think I can do that," Patrick said.

"...Oh." Well, that explained it. David understood perfectly now. 

"I mean, shit, this is why we're supposed to be somewhere _private_ ," Patrick said.

"Mmhmm. Sure. Okay. Could you, um, excuse me for a second?" 

David stood up from the table quickly, jostling their glasses. This was fine, he was fine. He just couldn’t be... here. Anymore. Possibly ever. Though, that ramen had been really fucking good. Maybe in a year. Or twelve.

“David, wait -” Patrick said. “It’s not what you think, okay?”

David tipped his head back, blinking at the ceiling. 

“Come over to my place, please?” 

“I’m really - Patrick, I don’t know - I’m really confused,” David said, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“And that’s my fault. I should have explained this all earlier.”

David laughed, wetly. “You think?”

“I didn’t think it would get this far, I thought - it doesn’t matter what I thought. Clearly, I miscalculated. I didn't plan for... you, I guess, is what I'm trying to say. Please let me explain. Just, not here.”

David nodded. Patrick followed him out the door, holding out his hand, palm up. David laced his fingers with Patrick’s, and they walked toward the subway. 

*

“Tea?” Patrick asked, when they’d arrived in Patrick’s apartment. 

“Something stronger?” David asked, hanging up his coat on the rack and admiring his favorite of Patrick's plants, a lush Chinese Money Plant, sitting on an end table.

“Hmm. Talk first, whiskey after?”

“Ah, something to look forward to then,” David said with a grimace. 

“I don’t know what you think is happening here -”

“You’re breaking up with me, obviously. Even though we’re not, we haven’t even -”

“For fuck’s sake,” Patrick said, taking two long steps over to him before wrapping a hand around the back of David’s neck and pulling him in, his mouth insistent and hot on David’s own. 

David was too stunned at first to do anything at all except let himself be kissed. But then, of course, David kissed him back. Of course he kissed him back. With one of Patrick’s hands twisted in his hair, the other, wrapped around his waist, David kissed him back like this would be the only time he got to do this. 

They swayed together in the middle of Patrick’s living room, David’s hands smoothing over Patrick’s shoulders, cupping his jaw, slipping under his jacket to run over the thin fabric of his t-shirt. He wanted to extract as much from this one, perfect kiss as humanly possible. 

Patrick was moving them now, backing David up until he felt the edge of Patrick’s couch behind his knees. He let himself fall backwards, landing heavily on the seat, and Patrick followed him down. Patrick knelt over his lap, legs bracketing his, as he tipped David’s face up to meet his in another kiss. 

David might be drowning. Or self-immolating. The room had definitely gotten hotter anyway. He tipped his head back until it was resting on the back of couch as Patrick kissed down the side of his neck, over his cheeks, the lobe of his ear. 

"We can go slow," David said, running a hand down Patrick's back in an attempt at reassurance. "Slower. It's okay if you haven't -"

"If I haven't what?" Patrick said, detaching his mouth from David's neck. "I've done this before. What makes you think I haven't done this before?"

"You're shaking. Kind of a lot, actually, so I just wanted to say it's okay if -"

"David, I'm over 600 years old. I've kissed like, a thousand people."

“Is that so?”

“Obviously.” Patrick rolled his eyes, and he shouldn't be allowed to look that sassy when his mouth was kiss-red and his hair was all fucked up. David had done that. David had made him look like _that._

“ _Obviously_ indeed. Who wouldn't want to kiss you," David said honestly.

"Jesus, David - it's like you don't even know what _you_ look like," Patrick said, eyes scanning over his face and down his chest.

If he asked Patrick to elaborate on that statement, he wasn't going to survive.

“Alright, you can tell me all about how good I look another time, but for now -" David drew him back in for a quick kiss before pushing at his shoulders and turning him until Patrick was on his back on the couch, beneath him, David between his legs. 

His hands were at Patrick’s belt, undoing the clasp. Which was causing him trouble, actually. Why couldn’t he get it - if his stupid hands would fucking _cooperate_. This was some kind of magic belt, had to be, that was the only goddamn explanation -

“David.”

“Hang on, I’ve almost -”

“Stop a second,” Patrick said. 

That got David’s attention. He dropped his hands to his lap, and stared at a loose thread in the seam of Patrick’s jeans, near his knee. How had he already fucked this up?

“Are you sure about this?” Patrick asked, brushing the hair back from David's forehead with more gentleness than David could stand. 

“Of fucking course I’m sure. I’ve wanted you for _months_. I mean, forget I said that, that's too much, I haven't wanted you, like, the _whole time_ or anything, that'd be... crazy. It’s just. Yes. I want this. With you. Whatever's on offer.” 

Was that firm enough? Maybe he should go on. Really lay out all the less-than-platonic ways he'd thought about Patrick since they met. Throw in the vivid, profane dreams he'd had, for good measure. Jesus.

“I just want to make sure," Patrick said. "Because you know - you know that we can’t - _I can’t_ \- really be with you, long-term.”

This came as no surprise to David. No one had ever wanted him 'long-term.'

“I think I’d take what I can get, with you," David answered, hating himself.

“Do you mean that?”

“Yeah, I mean it. Of course I mean it. Even if it fucking wrecks my heart, even if - wait a second.”

David shifted to sit on the next cushion over, offering Patrick a hand to sit up before continuing. Expressing a sentiment previously entirely foreign to him required the benefit of at least a couple inches of space between their bodies.

“I want it. Whatever you'll give me. However long. You have to know that. But what if - what if I also know I...shouldn’t. Shouldn't want something... short-term. Even though that's all I've ever had, or maybe _because_ that's all I've ever had. Like, I shouldn’t break myself open over this. Is that stupid, does that even make sense?”

“David, you’re talking about basic self-preservation. Of course that makes sense. That's what I want for you too. You deserve it, someone who can give you something better than what you could have with me."

 _There's never going to be someone better than you_ , David wanted to argue. But he didn't. 

“So that’s it, then? I just... go home. Knowing what your fucking _tongue_ feels like. We go back to eating nutella crepes and a hundred other things and not doing...” David gestured at the short distance between them. “This. Ever again."

Patrick cleared his throat. “Yeah. I think so.”

“Is there a third option I’m not seeing? I break my own fucking heart to be with you for a little while, or we keep being friends and I try to forget this ever happened. Is that it?”

“I mean, yeah. Most of the time, that's it. It's not like it'll be any easier for me. You're up there in that list of 1000 people I've kissed. Definitely cracking the top 50."

David laughed, leaning his head on Patrick's shoulder. Patrick reached for his hand, toying with his fingers before turning his hand palm up and tracing over David's misinformed heart line. 

"I mean... there are examples. Of leprechauns who’ve met someone. Someone they cared about. And they stayed with them. For as long as they could, anyway.”

“Are you saying that you, that you would...”

“I would, really. With you. I want to, so bad - you've got to know that, David. I just can’t. Not when I’m staring down fucking _immortality_. Even if you lived to 100, it'd be a drop in the bucket. It's too hard. You can’t ask me to.”

“I’m not, I wouldn’t,” David whispered, shaking his head. “And oh my God, _imagine_. Me, a shriveled bean of a centenarian, you, an eternally dewy-faced 30 year old.”

“I’ve done it before, the being-with-someone-for-now thing. I haven’t told you about that.”

“You definitely haven’t told me that. With who? When?” David asked.

“Mid-1600's, in Galway. Really great guy. But then he left me."

"Oh, I'm so sorry," David said, squeezing Patrick's hand. What kind of idiot would leave Patrick though, that was a question. 

"I should clarify. He left me in the sense that he caught the plague and died." 

"Jesus Christ, Patrick."

"Kidding."

"Oh, thank God."

"Just about the plague thing," Patrick said, with a wry half-smile. "He definitely still died, just of tuberculosis rather than plague. The 17th century was _great_."

"On that lovely note, I believe you'd said something about whiskey?" 

"I think we've earned it," Patrick said, letting David's hand go and heading into the kitchen.

Patrick returned with two glasses and a half-full bottle. He poured them each two fingers, and handed David his glass. 

David held his up for a toast. 

"To healthy choices."

"To healthy choices. Besides the 3:00 o'clock whiskey, that is."

They clinked glasses, and Patrick downed his portion on one smooth gulp. If David watched his throat work as he swallowed, who could blame him. Patrick had a very compelling throat. 

Patrick raised his eyebrows at him, tipping his head down to gesture at David's still-full glass. 

David tipped it back, mirroring him. 

"You look... really good. Doing that," Patrick said. 

David smiled. "Another?"

Patrick nodded and poured again. 

"You ever tend bar?" David asked, taking a sip.

"Yeah. I've done a lot of things, mostly in the food and drink industry. It's interesting work, until it isn't. Then I move on. I've been on a break for a while, while I figure out what to do next."

"Any ideas?"

"I want to help people, I think. But voluntarily, not through the wishes. Maybe some kind of nonprofit? I could fund it easily enough, unless the price of gold collapses. I'd want to help small restaurants stay afloat, help get them to a place where the owners can breathe a little, you know? Send their kids to college, even."

This was too much. How could David be expected to withstand it, the force of how _good_ Patrick was, how much he fucking _liked_ Patrick in this moment?

"I, just... can I kiss you? Is that against the rules?" David asked.

"Just for today though, right?" 

"Right," David breathed, already leaning in.

Patrick set his tumbler down, then reached for David's. That taken care of, David cupped Patrick's face in his hands and brought their mouths together in a soft press, breaking apart just to breathe against his lips. 

Patrick closed the gap, sucking on David's lower lip, running his tongue over it. David angled Patrick's face in his hands, slipping his tongue inside Patrick’s mouth, thumbs brushing over his cheekbones. Patrick shuddered, but David was aiming for top ten people Patrick had kissed, at a minimum. He was going for a gasp, a groan - an audible affirmation of his place in the rankings. 

He trailed one hand down the side of Patrick’s neck, dipping his fingers beneath the collar of Patrick’s shirt. Patrick circled his fingers around David’s wrist, disrupting his plans for the thin skin above Patrick’s collarbone. 

“David,” he murmured, “You’re going to drive me fucking crazy if we keep this up.”

“Mm, and this is a problem because...” David said, dropped his free hand to Patrick’s knee. 

“You know why. It’s only going to be worse, if we...” Patrick breathed into his neck, pressing a hot kiss where David’s neck met his shoulder. “Go any further.”

“Do you want me to go?”

“No, I want you to stay,” Patrick said. “Sleep with me.”

“What?” David said. He had to have misheard. There wasn’t any way Patrick had just said -

“Sleep with me. In my bed. Next to me.”

David nodded. “We can do that. Are we gonna need a pillow wall though?” he added with a smirk. 

“I don’t know David, _do you_ need a pillow wall?”

“I mean, maybe? But the pillows would get in the way of the... the...”

“The what,” Patrick prompted. 

“God, is there an adult word for ‘cuddle?’ Jesus.”

“No. And any alternate is worse. You want to embrace me? Caress one another? Enclasp me in you your arms? Nuzzle your -”

“Not anymore, I don’t!” David said, shoving at his shoulder like this was the middle school house party and David was trying to get in the debate captain’s pants. 

Patrick was laughing now, _great_. 

“I want to cuddle you too,” Patrick said, once he’d collected himself. 

“...You do?”

“David, in case this wasn’t clear, I’m in love with you. Of fucking course I want to cuddle you.”

“Excuse me, what?” David said, louder and more shrill than he’d have hoped.

“You knew that!” Patrick insisted. 

“I most certainly did _not_!”

“Are we fighting because I said I love you?”

“Yes! We are fighting because you - because of _that_.”

“Surely this isn’t the first time - wait. David. Someone’s said that to you before, right? Tell me I’m not the only person who’s ever -”

David downed the rest of his whiskey, and poured himself another generous serving.

“I mean, yes and no. Adelina used to tell me... _that_... all the time. My mom, a couple times. Mostly when she wasn’t exactly sober. My dad, when I graduated college, for whatever reason. And Alexis... it’s unsaid. We feel it, or at least I do, but we’ve never. We’ve never said it. Outloud.”

“I love you, David.”

“Stop.”

“I mean it.”

“That makes it worse.”

“You’d rather I didn’t mean it?” Patrick asked, clearly frustrated. 

“Kind of!”

“That doesn’t make any sense.”

“Fuck you, it totally makes sense, because I fucking love you back!” David slapped a hand over his own mouth. That - that was unintentional. 

“...Oh.”

“What the fuck are we gonna do, Patrick?” David whispered. 

“I don’t know. Drink, for starters?”

David poured him another glass. 

“Come ‘ere,” Patrick said, waving David closer. 

David settled in under Patrick’s arm, Patrick’s pulling him closer until they were pressed together, knee to shoulder. 

“Why haven’t we been doing this along?” David asked, taking a deep drink and rubbing his face on Patrick’s soft shirt. Why was his shirt so soft? Why did it feel so good on David’s face? He should probably investigate further. 

“Too busy eating, I think.”

“Cuddling isn’t incompatible with eating.”

“It kind of is though,” Patrick said. “It would’ve been awkward at restaurants. We’d have been that gross couple smooshed together on one side of a booth.”

“Jesus, you’re right. Nevermind.”

“Not at a restaurant now though. This is nice. You kind of... fit, there. It feels right. Do you know what I mean?”

“I do. Goddamnit. Pour me another drink,” David said, holding out his glass. 

Patrick obliged, and they sipped their drinks in silence, breaths unconsciously synchronized. 

After a few minutes, Patrick asked, “Wanna nap? It’s only like four o’clock in the afternoon. We can’t go to bed. But we can nap.”

“A nap sounds fucking magical. Nap with me, Patrick.”

Patrick set both of their glasses down, swaying to his feet before offering David his unsteady hand. Blind leading the blind, they stumbled to Patrick’s room. Patrick peeled off his socks before flipping back the duvet and flopping gracelessly to the bed with a groan. 

“Is there room for me in there?” David asked, stripping out of his sweater, leaving just his thin undershirt and pants. 

Patrick rolled to the side, patting the mattress next to him. David crawled in, curling his knees to invite Patrick to spoon him, which he did. David yawned, pulling Patrick’s arm closer in around his midsection.

“I love you, David,” Patrick said into the back of his neck. “You deserve to hear that.”

“And I love you,” David replied. “You deserve it too.”

They drifted off to sleep. 

*

Some time long after the sun had set, David awoke with a start, jolting out of Patrick’s arms and sitting up in bed. He jostled Patrick’s shoulder, none-too-gently. 

“Patrick, wake up!”

Patrick groaned and attempted to pull David back down into the sheets.

“Come back,” Patrick slurred. “You’re warm. Come back, I need your body heat.”

“Will you just -” David peeled Patrick’s arms off him before straddling Patrick’s hips and pinning his wrists to the headboard. “ _L_ _isten_?”

“I’m listening,” Patrick said, eyes awake and alert. 

“I know what I want for my third wish."


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who read and commented - y'all are the sweetest. There's going to be an epilogue in another week or so, but for now, here's the conclusion. [This_is_not_nothing](https://archiveofourown.org/users/this_is_not_nothing/pseuds/this_is_not_nothing) came up with all the good bits, I love her dearly.

"Last night, in my apartment, you said you wanted to age,” David said. “To age _with_ somebody. I could give you that, couldn't I? I could use my last wish to make you human."

"What?" Patrick blinked up at him in the near-total darkness of Patrick's bedroom. 

"I mean, the 'somebody' doesn't have to be me. If that's - if you wanted someone else to grow old with. Offer still stands."

"I don't want someone else,” Patrick said, slipping his hands from David’s loose grip and settling them on David’s hips. 

"Oh. Well, that... that works out, then," David breathed, as Patrick’s thumbs found their way just beneath the hem of his t-shirt. “And a lifetime is long, so if you change your mind, down the road... I’d understand. I have no expectation that you’ll - that’d I would be the person who you’d want to, um.”

Patrick nudged David’s ass with his knees, gently tipping David forward. David braced his hands on either side of Patrick’s shoulders as Patrick cupped his face, his palms warm against David’s cheeks, bringing their lips together in a soft kiss. This efficiently put a halt to David’s ramble. 

“How about we take it one step at a time, yeah?” Patrick said, a hairsbreadth from his mouth. 

“I can do that,” David said with a nod, kissing down Patrick’s neck when Patrick so obligingly lifted his chin to give David better access. “Does the first step involve more kissing, maybe?”

“It definitely does,” Patrick said, running a hand through the hair at the back of David’s head, tugging gently. 

“You could do that harder,” David said without thinking. “A lot harder, even. That would be... fine. For me.” Great, they’d been doing... whatever they were doing... for less than twenty-four hours and David was already trotting out the _pull my fucking hair_. 

“Noted,” Patrick said, sounding pleased. He tightened his grip, maneuvering David’s head in a way David loved a whole fucking hell of a lot, and kissed him. _You should move me however you want me_ , David thought but didn’t say. Hopefully, it was obvious. 

Patrick rocked his hips up, letting their dicks brush together through an unacceptable number of layers. Whose stupid idea had it been to go to sleep _clothed_? David loved clothes, clothes could be beautiful and make him feel so, so good, but right now, clothes were terrible. While he reflected on the inanity of clothes, Patrick’s hands had migrated down to David’s ass, a welcome distraction.

David pulled away from Patrick’s hot, gorgeous mouth long enough to pant, “Can I take your shirt off? Mine? Somebody’s pants, maybe? I’m not picky at this point.”

“All of it, how’s that sound?” Patrick said, kissing along his jawline until he got to the sensitive spot by his ear. 

“Well yes, of course, ideally, but to prioritize -”

Then something happened. David was suddenly, completely naked. As was Patrick. Patrick’s skin was under his hands, Patrick’s dick... _fuck_ , Patrick’s actual _dick_... was up against his, hot and hard. 

“Um,” David said articulately, every last brain cell dedicated to tracking the trail of fine, reddish-brown hair that ran from Patrick’s chest down to his navel and below. 

“Minor magic. Didn’t need you to make a formal wish,” Patrick said, skating his hands up David’s now-bare thighs. David felt the touch like jumper cables to his nervous system, like he hadn’t been touched in years. Maybe he hadn’t, really. Not like this.

The lamp on the nightstand flicked on. 

“More minor magic?” David asked, trailing his hands over Patrick’s shoulders and chest, his skin so warm and smooth beneath David’s palms. 

Patrick nodded. “I wanted to see you.”

“And what do you see?” David asked. 

“Everything I want, a whole lifetime of things I want.”

“Fuck, Patrick,” David said, overwhelmed. 

“That too, especially that. What do you want, David?”

“Anything, whatever - I’ll take anything. You can have anything. I want it all. I want to fuck you, I want you to fuck me, I want a thousand things. A blow job. More kissing. Your mouth, in general. Don’t make me pick.”

“You don’t have to pick,” Patrick said, grinding his hips up into David’s. “We can do all those things.”

“Okay, while I appreciate your optimism, I’m 27 now -”

“31,” Patrick corrected.

“ _Fine_ , 31, and I don’t know if -”

“On your back, David. Please.”

David rolled off of Patrick onto his back, planting his feet on the bed for Patrick to kneel between his legs. 

“Jesus, how do you look like that?” Patrick said, with more reverence than David had ever had directed at his body.

David tried not to squirm under the attention. He loved it, he hated it, he wanted Patrick to look away and never stop looking at him. 

“Okay, I know I said we could do everything on your list, but right now, I really, really want your cock in me. I want to ride you,” Patrick said. 

“That’s... a really nice idea,” David acknowledged.

“I have so many nice ideas,” Patrick murmured, leaning down to kiss the inside of David’s knee. 

“Speaking of nice ideas, do you have condoms?” David asked. “I’ve got some in my wallet, or -”

“You’re clean,” Patrick interrupted. “And I am too, obviously.”

“Uh. Thanks? And I don’t know what ‘obviously’ means in this context...” David trailed off. 

“The leeway for minor acts of magic extends to STI detection and prevention. We can still use condoms, of course, if that would make you more comfortable. And we can go get tested before you fuck me bare, or before I fuck you. Or we can always use condoms - it's whatever you want.”

David blinked rapidly. Why the fuck was he going all misty about getting safer sex? Oh. Right. 

“It’s just," David said, haltingly. "No one’s really cared what I wanted. Before."

“That ends now. I care. I’ll get a condom.”

David nodded, grateful and strangely unable to speak. Patrick kissed his knee again before reaching across him to open the nightstand drawer. He resettled in between David’s legs, dropping a small bottle of lube and a condom on the bed beside him. 

“How do you like to fuck, David?” Patrick asked, as though this was a question David could possibly be expected to answer. 

“Um.”

“You mentioned hair pulling. Anything else I should be aware of?” Patrick was touching his legs, running his hands from David’s ankles to his knees and back down, as though that should calm him. It didn't. His entire body was one large erogenous zone. 

“I like... a lot of kissing,” David said, and it felt like a confession. 

Patrick leaned forward, curling a hand behind David’s neck to draw him up into a long kiss. David forgot all about what else he liked until Patrick pulled away, forcing an unauthorized whine from David. Embarrassing. 

“What else?” Patrick asked. 

“Um. I like when you. When you. Move me around a little. Put me where you want me to be, that kind of thing. I like to be... good.”

“You _are_ good, but I know what you mean,” Patrick said, lacing his fingers with David’s. “Would you like it if I told you, how good you are?”

David nodded. “Yes, I, uh. Really would. Like that.”

“You’re being _very_ good, right now, telling me what you like.”

David felt his face heat. It was awful; it felt so good. Patrick leaned down and kissed him again, until David relaxed into it, boneless underneath him. 

“Anything else?” Patrick asked, an inch from David’s mouth. 

“Come - I like come,” David said, thoughtlessly. “A lot.” _Jesus_. 

“You like coming?” Patrick tipped his head to the side, brow furrowed like he was trying to decode the Mayan hieroglyphs rather than decipher David’s pathetic attempt at sexual communication. 

“No, I mean, yes. Of course. I uh, I like it when someone comes on me.”

“Mm. I see. I like that too. With the right person.”

“Am I the right person?” David asked, open vulnerability coloring his tone. 

“You are _definitely_ the right person,” Patrick said. 

Oh. Maybe it was okay, then. Maybe Patrick liked him enough that it wasn’t weird, for David to say these things.

“You can always tell me what you want. I’m never going to stop wanting to know,” Patrick added, as though that was normal, as though David knew what to do with that. 

“Okay,” David managed to say, swallowing audibly. 

“Do you want to watch me get myself ready or do you want to help? It’s good for me, either way.”

“I - Can I do it? I want to.”

“That’s so good, David. You're doing so good. Give me your hand.”

David held out his hand, palm up. Patrick dribbled a bit of lube into the center of it, then propped one foot up on the bed, giving David access. David’s hand was trembling as he ran a careful finger behind Patrick’s balls, swirling it over his hole. 

“That’s perfect, _fuck._ God.”

David pressed just the very tip of his index finger against Patrick’s hole, slipping it in up to the first knuckle.

“Come on, all of it,” Patrick said, head tipped back and a hand on his own cock. He was a fucking _vision_. 

David pulled out, squeezing more lube onto his fingers and swirling two around Patrick’s hole again without dipping inside. 

“Not fair,” Patrick said, shuddering above him. 

“I’m just being good,” David said, twisting his finger as he slipped it inside. “Never said I’d be _fair_.”

“ _Fucking hell_ , give me another.”

“Not yet,” David said, tugging at his rim and then fucking his finger in and out, slowly, so slowly. 

“Please, David,” Patrick said, doing his best to slick up his own hand with the wetness gathered at the tip before stroking himself.

“Give me your hand, Patrick,” David instructed, reaching for the bottle of lube again and squeezing some into Patrick’s open palm. “Touch yourself. I want you to.”

Patrick opened his eyes, staring down at David, pupils dilated enough to leave only a sliver of warm, honey brown iris visible, mouth open. David slipped his middle finger inside, next to his index, and curled both. Patrick’s back arched, eyes closing, and he groaned. 

“Again, do that again,” Patrick said, a flush already spreading from his neck down his chest. He was officially the most beautiful thing David had ever seen, and he’d seen a lot of beautiful things. 

David fucked his fingers in and out, added a curl now and again, making Patrick gasp. He added a third finger, and Patrick’s legs were shaking, his hand stilling on his cock. 

“Touch yourself, honey,” David said. 

“I...can’t, or I’m going to fucking come, and I don’t, _shit,_ want to come yet,” Patrick said through gritted teeth, fist wrapped around the base of his cock. _Oh._ David pulled his fingers almost all the way out before sliding them smoothly back in, all the way. 

“Stop, stop -!” Patrick moaned. David bit back a cocky grin and slipped his fingers out. 

Patrick batted his hand away, fumbling for the condom and holding it between his teeth to rip it open with his still-clean left hand. He pinched the tip of the condom, rolling it down carefully, and David was going to die. He was going to die, or come, before they even got to fucking. But who was he kidding, just his fingers in Patrick's ass was already better fucking than he'd ever, ever done. 

Patrick searched out the lube bottle from between the folds of sheets, dripping some onto David’s cock and spreading it over the head and shaft. He rose to his knees, gripping David’s dick and angling it, pressing the tip against his hole. He took a deep breath, exhaling slowly as he sank down on it, inch over inch. It felt like David was being swallowed. 

When he’d bottomed out, Patrick folded himself forward to capture David’s mouth in a deep, graceless kiss. 

“It’s never -” _kiss,_ “felt like this,” _kiss._ “Ever,” Patrick said, grinding down on him and breaking David’s brain clean open. Patrick’s cock was slipping between their stomachs, and everything was messy and beautiful and David loved him so much. 

“I love you, I love you so much,” David said against Patrick’s cheek when he paused for breath, hands stroking over Patrick’s back, his arms, his ass as he tried to tell him every way he knew how. 

Patrick was setting a slow rhythm now, keeping David deep inside and rocking forward and back over him, driving them both closer, closer. 

“Do you still want me to - god _dammit_ \- come on you?” Patrick gasped. 

David nodded. “And I want to see it, let me see it.”

“That’s good, you’re so good, David. I love you so much, you can see it, yeah,” Patrick said, sitting up enough to get a hand on his cock. His eyes never left David’s, and David was drowning in them. 

“I’ve gotta - I’ve gotta -” David groaned, gripping Patrick’s ass in both hands and fucking up into him until he just couldn’t hold back any more, coming and coming into Patrick and laughing and maybe crying, just a little. Patrick kept up that slow rocking rhythm, milking David’s cock for everything it had, until Patrick’s ass tightened around his dick as he came with a shout, painting David from his neck to his waist with hot stripes of come. 

David’s gasping breaths evened out, and he could feel the come cooling on his skin. When he managed to open his eyes, Patrick was there, looking at him, expression wide open and fond and like nothing David had ever seen. 

“That was...” Patrick said, swaying atop him. “...You were...the best. The best I’ll ever -” Patrick cut himself off with a yawn. 

“Same.”

“That’s it? ‘Same’?” Patrick said skeptically, squinting at him with one eye open. 

“I’m dead. I’ve died. You’ve killed me. Forgive me for not having any remaining brain power to tell you exactly how good you are, Jesus,” David said. 

“Not Jesus,” Patrick said, carefully lifting himself off of David’s dick and collapsing beside him. “Thought we’d been over that.”

“You’re an asshole. A gorgeous, beautiful, sexy asshole,” David slurred, his useless hands slipping as he tried to get the condom off, tying it haphazardly and peering over the side of the bed for a hopefully-well-placed trash can. He was in luck. 

“Shower,” Patrick said, swiveling to get his feet over the side of the bed and lurching to a stand. 

“Then a bath. You have a nice bathtub, right?” David asked, yawning and following Patrick out of the room. “Not one of those shitty shallow ones.”

“Yes, Prince David, I have a nice bathtub. Let’s get clean, and take a bath.”

*

Lube and come dealt with as speedily as their fucked-out limbs would allow, David settled in against Patrick’s chest in the pleasantly deep soaker tub as it filled with water. 

“So is it even possible? Could I wish away your immortality?” David asked into the peaceful silence, warm and more comfortable than he’d possibly ever been. 

“I... think so? The rules are very specific.”

David pulled one of Patrick’s hands between his own, tracing over the lines on his palm. Patrick should teach him how to read them. 

“There are multiple rules? You’ve only told me the one, about how I can’t wish for actual people.”

Patrick pressed a kiss to the back of David’s neck. 

“Just a few other minor things. No bringing people back from the dead. No making people fall in love. And no wishing for additional wishes.”

David tipped his head back onto Patrick’s shoulder. “Those are the genie’s rules in Aladdin. Walt Disney wrote the leprechaun laws?”

He could practically feel Patrick roll his eyes. 

“Walt was a dick, but he died in 1966. Ted Elliott wrote the screenplay for Aladdin, and he borrowed the rules from me. Decent guy, Ted Elliott. Walt, on the other hand, total dick."

David knew there was a story there, one David definitely wanted to hear. But it could wait.

"Ted forgot one rule though," Patrick added. "No time travel lasting longer than thirty minutes. That’s one the leprechauns added in the 8th century. Apparently, people kept wanting to meet Jesus, but it kept messing up the timeline when they stayed too long.”

“Okay, so I have a lot of questions about that, but maybe we should get back to the question at hand," David said. This took a lot of restraint, because he really wanted to hear everything about the time traveling Irish Christians of the Dark Ages.

“Leprechaun law, right. So it would appear that someone wishing for my mortality doesn’t break any of those rules.”

“So I could do it,” David said, confirming. 

“So you could do it.”

“If you wanted me to."

"I want you to," Patrick said, firmly. 

"Wow. Um, so are we ready to do this?”

“I need food first. Let’s go to Scotty’s.”

*

“We kind of met over diner food, didn’t we?" David said, sliding into a beat-up vinyl booth under the unforgiving fluorescent lining of Scotty's 24-hour diner. "We've come full circle.”

"One thing is different this time," Patrick said, wedging one of his feet between David's under the formica table. 

"Oh yeah? Something's changed?" David prompted, fishing for a compliment.

"Yeah. We didn't eat last time we were in a diner together. I'm remedying that right now."

The server sidled up to the table, pulling a pen from behind her ear. 

"Hey Sharon, it’s been a while," Patrick said warmly. Of course.

"Patrick! Good to see you, sweetie. What can I get for you and your... friend?" she asked.

"I'm getting waffles this time. Cheesy hashbrowns, too. With jalapenos. A slice of whatever pie you’ve got. Side order of bacon. A loaded omelet for my friend. And two cups of coffee, please. Sound good, David?”

David nodded, smiling at Sharon when she squeezed his shoulder before leaving to deliver their order to the kitchen. David was now, apparently, the kind of person who smiled at the occasional friendly stranger. What a fucking world.

“Isn't 2:00 a.m. a little late for coffee and processed meats?" David said in a weak, disingenuous protest.

“You think I’m going to start my mortal life uncaffeinated?” Patrick countered. “And there’s never a bad time for bacon.”

“You’re so right. I retract my previous statement. So how do you feel? Nervous? Excited?"

"Ready. I feel ready."

"Ready sounds good."

Sharon set two mugs of coffee down on the table. 

“That’ll just be a minute on the food, boys,” she said. 

“Thanks, Sharon,” Patrick replied. “Say hi to Willy for me. Hope the kids are good.”

“Oh, they’re great. You still coming to Willy’s Memorial Day cookout this year?”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

“Bring this one along,” Sharon said, pointing at David. “He’s a cutie.”

Patrick laughed. “We’ll be there.” David shook his head in unsurprised disbelief. 

Once Sharon had gone, David asked, “So do I just... I just say it? What I wish for?”

“After breakfast,” Patrick answered, sipping his coffee. “There’s something I want to show you.”

Over waffles and bacon and hashbrowns and pie and an upsettingly good omelet, they talked. Patrick asked about David’s best memories. David told him about a sunset in Casablanca, how the sky and the sea blurred together in cotton candy blues and pinks. Or the way it felt at seven years old when Adelina would brush the hair back from his face after a nightmare, humming under her breath until David could again fall asleep. The glittery, lit-up feeling he’d gotten after kissing both Jose Ramirez and Heather Jefferson in eighth grade. How it felt to hug Alexis two days ago, knowing his beautiful and loud and brash sister was _safe_. 

Patrick leaned his face on his hand, and listened. 

*

“So where are you taking me now?” David asked, stuffing his hands in his pockets to ward off the chilled, 3:00 a.m. spring air as they left the diner. 

“Battery Park.”

“Huh. That’s a trek.”

“It’s two miles.”

“It’s two miles _at three o’clock in the morning._ ”

“Somewhere else you’d rather be?” Patrick asked, throwing him a sidelong glance, the collar of his jacket turned up to cover his ears. 

“Definitely not,” David said, slipping his arm inside Patrick’s and returning his hand to the warmth of his coat pocket. 

*

“Why are we going to Battery Park?” David asked, syncing the pace of his steps to Patrick’s as they made their way down Church Street. 

“It’s where I landed when I got to America. It was called Castle Garden back then. It was New York’s port of entry until Ellis Island got up and running.”

“Jesus, you’re old,” David said, when what he really meant was ‘ _what the fuck do you see in me_.’ Patrick had been around for so long, met so many people. There had to be someone better than David out there for him. A thousand someones probably. Patrick was very someone-able. 

“I can’t argue with that. On the other hand, I’ve never seen a sunset in Casablanca. Haven’t even tried every dim sum place in Chinatown.”

“Mm, dim sum sounds amazing. Can we get bao later?”

“We can _definitely_ get bao later,” Patrick said. “Pork or shrimp?”

“Both,” David answered immediately.

“Right answer.”

“So sunrise at Battery Park.”

“It seemed like a fitting place to have another fresh start,” Patrick said. “That’s how it felt the last time I was there, anyway. Probably smells better now.”

“Let’s hope.”

*

“What do you want to do first, after the sunrise?” David asked as they wound through the Financial District. 

“Take you back to bed, probably. Then get dim sum. Or the other way around, depending on our how we're feeling.”

“That sounds like an excellent plan, either way.”

“All my plans are good ones.”

*

On a bench overlooking the East River, Patrick leaned his head on David’s shoulder. 

“This just kind of feels like one of those perfect moments that you dream about. Except in my dream I'd be holding a nice cup of tea.”

“I can get you a cup of tea. I think I saw a coffee cart on the way into the park. They probably have earl grey - I’ll be right back,” David said, pressing a kiss to Patrick’s temple. “You just stay here.”

“Why am I staying here? I could go with you.”

“Just... look at the water? Meditate? Reflect upon the end of your career as a minor god?”

“Not a god.”

“I don’t know, just let me get you a tea. I'm being nice!”

“Okay, David,” Patrick said with a smile.

As David walked through the park toward the place he vaguely remembered a coffee cart being, he thought. And as he thought, he lightly panicked. Patrick had to have met a thousand people better than him. Ten thousand. One hundred thousand. How many people could someone meet in 600 years, anyway? He should do the math on that, except he was terrible at math. Patrick was probably good at math. Patrick was good at all kinds of things David had no idea how to do, like making friends out of strangers and seeing something lovable in David. But maybe David was learning, slowly.

David ordered a large English breakfast tea for Patrick - the closest to earl grey he could find - and a double espresso for himself. He smiled at the coffee cart guy, and dropped a 200% tip in the tip jar. David topped up Patrick’s tea with cream, fitting the lid back on tightly before heading back toward Patrick and their bench overlooking the river. The sun was about to come up. 

David handed Patrick his tea, and they drank together, looking out at the water. 

“Do you know what this time of day is called, the period right before sunrise?” Patrick asked. 

David shook his head, sipping his espresso. 

“The blue hour. When the sun is just below the horizon.”

David hummed in acknowledgement.

“It’s my favorite time of day. Everything is still pretty quiet, then the birds start picking up. And the buildings, the people - everything looks so beautiful. Something about how light filters through the ozone layer. It always feels full of potential - like anything’s possible.”

David nodded, letting Patrick tell him all about Chappuis absorption and Rayleigh scattering of the sun’s rays, how sunrises in New York had evolved over the last 170-odd years, a combination of fluctuating air quality and the ever-changing man-made landscape.

“Are you nervous?” David asked eventually, the sky shifting from deep blue to the barest hint of orange at the horizon.

“A little,” Patrick admitted. “What if I’m bad at it? Being human.”

“Not possible. You’re the most human non-human I know."

Patrick laughed. "I'm the only non-human you know. That you're aware of, anyway."

"I have my suspicions about my doorman," David said. "He looks vaguely magical."

"Oh yeah. I meant to tell you. He's a werewolf."

"You're fucking with me."

"Am I?"

David shook his head, laughing. It would fucking figure. 

"If we were on the other side of the park, we could see the Statue of Liberty," Patrick said after a beat, "But that'd be a little on the nose, don't you think?" 

"Is that how you see this? Gaining your freedom?"

"Not exactly. You already gave me that, remember?" Patrick replied, holding up his ringed fingers. "It's a welcome to someplace new, that statue. 'Mother of Exiles' is another of her names. That's what I'll be, an exile, in a way. I can't fucking wait. It feels like coming home."

David brought Patrick's hand to his mouth, kissing his knuckles softly. The sky was all pink and gold, chasing away the lingering darkness.

"Patrick," he whispered. "I wish for you to be human."

Patrick gripped his hand, and they both held their breath. David's hand suddenly felt warmer, then _hot_. Patrick released his grip, pulling away to look at his fingers, at his _rings._ Which were now a striking, shining _gold._

"Oh my God," David breathed. "What - what does that mean?"

"I have no idea."

"How do we test it? What's something you could only do as a leprechaun? Some minor magic?"

"Um, lightly read your mind."

David gasped in retroactive horror. Oh no. Well, at least the river was right here in front of him for convenient self-flinging purposes.

"No, no - don't panic. Not your thoughts - just, your general, I don't know... aura? Remember, I've told you that already. It's how I found you that one night, in the bar. It's fine. I just - I can't feel it anymore."

David told his racing, frantic heart to fucking chill. This wasn't about him, and anyway, he reminded himself, Patrick liked him. Loved him even, so he'd said. It probably wouldn't matter even if he _could_ read his mind.

Patrick set his tea on the bench beside him, rubbing his palms on his thighs and letting out a harsh breath.

“What comes next?" Patrick said. “I feel - there's this itch, like I can feel the seconds passing. Is that what _time_ feels like? How do you stand it?"

David brought his hand up to the back of Patrick's neck, carding his fingers through his short hair and looking out at the sunlight glinting off the water.

"You get used it, I think," David said gently. 

"Is it always like this? This urgency?" Patrick went on. "I want to eat something delicious and fuck you again. And finally get around to watching _Beasts of the Southern Wild._ Oh and maybe get a dog - all at once.”

"That's...that's a lot. We can do the first three no problem, but I think you should think about the dog thing a little more. My knits don't like animal hair."

Patrick laughed, sharp and bright and alive. He turned to David, cupping David's face in his hands. 

"I love you, David. So fucking much, all the more now that I get to keep you."

David laughed wetly. "We get to keep each other, looks like. I love you so fucking much too, in case that needed saying. Prepare yourself - I'm going to be saying it a lot, going forward. You're going to get so tired of me."

"Never."

Patrick tugged David toward him, pressing a kiss to his forehead, the bridge of his nose, the swell of his cheek. David couldn't even find it within himself to be embarrassed that this was happening in public. There was hardly anyone around, anyway, this early in the morning on what was already the best day of David's life. 

They kissed, and kissed, and kissed. When Patrick pulled back, the smile on his face that could compete with the sunrise.

"First things first, David. Let's go eat."


End file.
